


Blushing Bones

by Tyrant_Tortoise



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Female Reader, Fontcest, Gyftmas, HoneyKetchup, HorrorTale, Lots of pairings to come, M/M, Reader-Insert, Shameless Smut, Swapfell, Underfell, just one chapter so far, passiontale, prompts, soulmate resonance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2018-10-23 08:11:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10715589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyrant_Tortoise/pseuds/Tyrant_Tortoise
Summary: A collection of smut one-shots, each with a different skeleton/character and different scenario.  These include what-ifs from my other fics, prompts from my tumblr, and fic-swaps/trades.  Each chapter will be marked with the AU and contents, and the tags will update accordingly.





	1. *you better not waste food (Horrortale)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is some lovely Horrortale Sans/Reader smut for the amazing [Ask Sans all the Things](https://asksansallthethings.tumblr.com/), (also [FireflyKisses](http://archiveofourown.org/users/FireflyKisses/pseuds/FireflyKisses) on here--I had no idea you had an Ao3!) who is a total sweetheart and wrote me some [super hawt HT!Sans/Reader smut](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10717449) last night. 
> 
> _Some keywords for this chapter:_  
>  rough sex, biting, dominate Sans, choking, more plot than there should've been, and some light fluff

****

** Horrortale: Sans **

"you're trembling."

The words come murmured beneath Sans's breath as he stares straight ahead at the TV, which is playing the single VHS tape the skeleton brother's own: Mettaton's Valentine's Day Special. Usually, you don't mind that Papyrus watches it every single night after dinner, while he stretches his incredibly long legs out and lounges back in his recliner to work on concocting new puzzles and traps. The tape serves as a reminder that things used to be different Underground, long before you had fallen into this hellhole. The monsters used to have hope; they used to have _food_. 

Tonight, however, you're not paying attention to the upbeat, cheesy show. No, instead... Sans is correct; you're trembling in your seat beside him. He places a deliberate hand on your thigh and squeezes, and despite the fact that his empty socket is closest to you, you can practically feel the glare of that engorged, crimson iris on the opposite side. You breathe in deep, try to relax--you _have_ to relax.

But how can you when you've committed the most grievous offense possible in the Underground?

You wasted food.

It wasn't something you did on purpose. No, you were starving just as much as the skeleton brothers, who showed you enough Mercy to feed you despite the fact that you took up their resources and originally had enough meat on your bones to feed them for the better portion of a week. Surprisingly enough, you had been spared by Papyrus when you successfully completed every one of his puzzles in Snowdin. The lanky Royal Guard Captain was a skeleton of many standards, and since you had bested him, he had taken you home with him to consult with on how he could improve his puzzles. By the end of the night, he considered you a friend, and he couldn't bear to eat you.

That was how you had come to live with the skeletons, slowly starving and unable to go outside (unless covered by one of Sans's hoodies and stuck close to the brothers) lest you be devoured by the other monsters of Snowdin.

You knew that food was scarce--a rarity, rationed out by Empress Undyne ( _undick_ , as Sans usually muttered with a scoff and a comment about turning her into sushi. Papyrus always shushed him, eyelights darting around nervously), or obtained during Sans's sentry hunts or Papyrus's puzzles. You learned that the humans were supposed to be taken to Undyne, their SOULs harvested in an attempt to break the barrier keeping the monsters Underground, but... apparently, Sans harbored a great disdain for the empress and convinced his brother to start eating the humans instead. The new diet had been what ultimately saved the starving town of Snowdin, as the Guard Dogs began hunting as well, and the human meat was dispersed through the town--for a price, of course. 

It meant that the skeleton brothers were among the most well-fed of the town, yet... that didn't amount to much. Hunger was still a constant gnawing in your gut, and the meager portions you ate daily only served to lessen the pangs to a dull ache for a few hours.

So of course, there was no way you actually _wanted_ to waste food. You had just been caught... off-guard. You had been eating a generous portion of Papyrus's Special Spaghetti, when you bit into something particularly chewy. Thinking it was a meatball at first, you bit down harder... only to receive a mouthful of gross fluid. You spat it out into the bowl and froze when you spotted what it was. 

Half of a chewed-up eyeball stared up at you. 

Both brothers watched as you started gagging in your horror, only to upheave remnants of the spaghetti you had just ingested, as well as bile from your empty stomach. You hadn't meant to puke in the spaghetti. You hadn't meant to ruin the meal. 

Papyrus was horrified, and you apologized over and over while he was on the verge of tears and Sans gripped the edge of the table so hard that his phalanges left deep, splintered claws marked in the wood. His usual grin was gone, replaced by a grim, tight line, and although you finally received Papyrus's forgiveness, you knew that you had messed up big time. 

You were unable to concentrate on the television after you had discarded your food (you thought for a second that Sans might force you to eat the spaghetti anyway, but instead, he had just declared that you had missed your chance for a meal) and ended up seated beside Sans on the couch. With his hand on your leg, and his keen observation of your nerves, you knew that as soon as Papyrus was gone, he was going to have more than just a word with you. You aren't scared of him, exactly, but you knew he could be rough when he was angry, that he had difficulty reigning in his impulses thanks to the gaping, jagged hole in the top of his skull.

You knew because you were his.

You willingly belonged to Sans, ever since the evening he had come home, fresh gore spattering his dingy T-shirt, and the elongated femoral ax dragging on the carpet behind him. You had been on the couch then, and reflexively drew your knees against your chest as that single, dilated eyelight rolled around in its socket to descend upon you. Freezing, you had shifted so that your back was dug into the armrest of the couch, trying to bury yourself in the cushions, and Sans's manic grin had stretched. He took his sweet time crossing the living room, the fingers of his free hand digging into his empty eyesocket to hook around the orbital rim and give several sharp, grounding tugs. 

The bone handle of his weapon hit the carpet with a dull thud when Sans reached the couch, and he reached out and grasped the front of your shirt, pulling you forward so that he could lean in, looming over your form. That bright crimson eyelight studied you, and you held your breath, one hand automatically coming up to grasp his wrist. He pulled harder on the rim of his socket, his humorless grin widening. 

"kiddo, i can't decide if you're incredibly lucky or unlucky," Sans mused, his voice both low and quiet, yet strained. 

"I don't know. I always wanted to gamble and test my luck," you blurted, trying to deflect as he often did, trying to obscure the fact that your heart was hammering in your chest by making the conversation light and casual. It was almost as if you could forget the fact that you were face-level with the wet smear of blood on the front of his shirt, the thick coppery scent assaulted your senses. 

"welp, you don't have much of a _poker face_ , pal. but you do seem to like _rolling the dice_ just by being here."

"Where else would I go?" you whispered, your gaze locking with his. Sans's hand fell from his eyesocket, his phalanges scraping along the side of his face in the process. He didn't have an answer, it seemed, but his fingers tightened in the fabric of your shirt. "Do.. you want me to leave?" 

"no." The answer is simple and immediate.

"Then, why--?"

"do you ever worry about us eating you?" he blurted, watching your expression with a laser-focus. 

"No. I mean, I wouldn't blame you if you did."

"liar."

"Well, I.. I don't _want_ to be eaten." When did his face get so close? You could feel his breath fan against your lips, and the bright red iris took up most of your vision. The hand balled into the front of your shirt began to tremble. You moved your hand up from his wrist, working your fingers between his bony phalanges and squeezing. 

"i'll keep you fed," Sans vowed, a moment before his teeth crashed into your lips. He kissed you with a different kind of hunger, and you returned his vigor with a desperation of your own. You both wanted to feel something--anything other than the constant hunger pangs and the bleakness that settled into your chest, the fear of being trapped in this hell until you either starved or were murdered. You sought refuge in each other's bodies, and that night, Sans had been rough, marking you as his and his alone, with a promise in both his gaze and his hushed groans that no one but _him_ would ever touch you.

It had been a nightly thing between the two of you, making you as close to lovers as you could get in your respite from hell. You had never been afraid of him, had always been willing and always _so turned on_ by his touch, even the moments when he almost lost himself. 

Yet as soon as Papyrus finishes his puzzles and gets up from the recliner to retire to his room for the night, you feel a surge of panic sweep over you. You want to call out to your friend, to tell him not to leave you alone with Sans, but you can't. 

In the end, you're most terrified of disappointing him after everything he's done to provide for you and keep you safe.

You both wait until Papyrus's bedroom door clicks shut, before you turn toward Sans and open your mouth.

"Sans--"

" **stop.** " He cuts you off with a gruff tone, his voice an octave lower than usual (the same voice he used when giving you commands in the bedroom). You immediately obey, your spine stiffening. His hand squeezes your thigh one more time, before he releases you and stands up, heading toward the staircase. You hesitate; he still hasn't looked at you.

"c'mon."

Breathing in deep, you stand and follow him to his bedroom. As soon as the door's shut and locked, you find yourself propelled backwards onto Sans's mattress. It's not every day that he uses his magic (his head wound has severely affected his magic reserves), and when he finally turns that glowing red eye toward you, it appears to be faintly glowing, the edge outlined in blue. 

"you put me in a tight spot tonight, kiddo," he mutters as he approaches, moving to straddle your supine form. The springs jostle beneath you as he plants a knee on either side of your ribs, his patellas digging into your sides. One of his hands gathers your wrists, pinning them above your head as he looms above you.

"I'm sorry, Sans. Look, I--"

"i know, i know. you didn't mean to." His voice, though gruff, sounds gentle--as if he really does understand. "sure, i get it. but you need to be more cautious about what you're eating. you should understand by now. and if i get more food out, well, you'd be _eating_ into our rations."

"I know, Sans."

His grip tightens on your wrists and he shifts his weight, pressing them down into the mattress. "so now i have to watch you be hungry all night because whatever you did eat today, you threw up." 

"It's okay, I--"

" **it's not.** " He shakes your arms, and you bite off the rest of your statement. "it gets bad during the surface winter, when the hikers become less and less frequent. every bite has to count to survive."

"I.. I'm sorry, Sans," you whisper, your voice breaking as you gaze up at his stricken expression. He's frustrated, but there's nothing he can do about it. 

His fingers move to the waistband of his shorts, tugging them down the crests of his hips.

Nothing he can do except lose himself and forget the gravity of the situation weighing heavily on his shoulders. 

A bulbous, bright blue phallus springs forth when its released from the confines of the shorts, and he shifts forward, his knees pressing into your upper arms. 

Nothing he can do except drive the point home and make sure you never forget to be more careful next time.

Suddenly his grim smile stretches, turning into something more predatory, his gaze piercing. He releases your wrists to grip your hair at the nape of your neck, pulling it hard to tilt your chin upward.

"you're still hungry, right?"

The rounded, smooth tip presses against your lips, hot magic sparking and dancing across your flesh. 

"then i've got just the thing to fill your stomach. but you've gotta work for it."

His voice is deep and commanding, even with that grin across his face, and when he thrusts his hips forward, you comply by parting your lips and taking the length in your mouth. It never has much of a taste, except for that electrifying tingle that ultimately makes your tongue numb if you have it in your mouth for too long. You bob your head along him as much as you can with his knees still pinning your arms against the mattress, and he tips his skull back after a moment, his eyes momentarily closing. You're more than willing to help him achieve an escape from his own personal hell, especially when you can watch him from behind your lashes as he lets out muffled groans and quiet pants. 

His fingers tighten in your hair, and he starts urging you along in a pace that's too difficult to keep without making your neck incredibly sore, so you make a warning sound in the back of your throat. He picks up on it immediately and abandons your head in favor of just keeping the pace himself by thrusting his hips into your face. A couple of times, he thrusts a little too deep and you gag, which seems to make his expression darken.

"need to work on your gag reflex. can't have you throwing up again," he mutters, and you swirl your tongue around the tip and suck, trying to get him to groan in ecstasy again and forget about the spaghetti transgression. It seems to work; he eases his pace in favor of letting you do the work again, and it isn't long before you have him panting and softly cursing above you. You know he's close, and you sink your head back into the mattress, trying to get a breath, but he just thrusts in deep again. 

"you need to learn to finish your meal. and not to waste your food," he growls, and although you both know magical cum can't satiate any kind of hunger, his point has been made that this is part of your punishment. After another few shallow thrusts, he shudders, his bones rattling together softly as his magic fills your mouth. It's even more electric than his phallus, and it tingles as you swallow, making both your throat numb and your chest warm. 

His cock leaves your lips with an audible _pop_ , and you breathe in deep, rolling your shoulders once his weight eases up on your arms. 

"good girl." His grin looks more relaxed than it did a moment ago, and he shucks off his dirty blue hoodie, letting it crumple into the floor with the rest of the mess littering his carpet. "did you enjoy your meal?" he queries, his phalanges sliding past the waistband of your shorts (which are really _his_ shorts; you usually end up wearing his clothes since Papyrus's wouldn't come close to fitting you) and delving between your thighs without preamble. The rough bone encounters a slickness along your thighs, and his grin widens. You close your legs together, trying to trap his hand there, to get him to touch the bundle of nerves that feels so alight right now as you gaze up at your skeletal lover, watching as he assesses your arousal. 

He pulls his hand back, streaking your own wetness further down your legs. You're unable to stop the disappointed whine from building in the back of your throat. "heh, you really _did_ have a good meal, huh? watching you eat made me kinda hungry, too, but..." He scrapes the tips of his fingers along the inside of your thigh, trailing his fingers down... and then back up, yet stopping just short of where you wanted his touch the most. "i dunno. i'm more in the mood for _fast food_."

" _Sans,_ " his name comes out in a needy whimper, and he chuckles while you wiggle your hips, trying in vain to reach his hand. 

"okay, maybe i'll have a _quick snack._ " He moves, sliding down his body and finally releasing your arms. Sans parts your legs with his femur, and with one fluid yank, divests you of your shorts. When he leans down, his breath is hot against your core, but he doesn't immediately do anything. You glance down to find him settled between your legs, watching you with that manic grin. You buck your hips impatiently toward him, and he makes a warning sound in the back of his throat, grasping your pelvis with his palms and pressing it firmly into the mattress. 

" _Sans_."

"hmmm?"

" _Please?_ "

"all you had to do was ask, pal," he claims with his grin widening, and suddenly, a bright cerulean tongue flicks out along your damp folds, and you gasp, jerking beneath him. He keeps you pinned in place by the pelvis while he continues his assault in more earnest, varying between long, languid licks and quick flicks with the tip of his tongue. The magic there is almost the same as his conjured phallus--crackling and electric, sending tingles throughout your body, keeping your nerves alight. He has you writhing on the sheets, and just as he spears two phalanges inside you, he moves his mouth to bite the inside of your thigh. The combination of pleasure and pain is enough to drag a rather loud, lurid moan past your lips. 

He bites down harder, his teeth bruising. "quiet. you'll wake paps," he hisses, before lifting his head. "ya'know, this hardly seems like a punishment."

"It'll be a real punishment if you stop," you whisper, your breathing still ragged. You had been getting so close!

He grasps your hips tighter, sitting up on his knees. "i'm not hungry anymore," he claims with an unapologetic shrug. "but i'm far from done. i need to remind you who you belong to." His fingers tighten, biting into your skin, and he drags you further down the bed, tilting your pelvis upward with his grip. He angles his hips, lining up with your entrance, and without any further foreplay or teasing, he sheathes himself inside to the hilt. You gasp and he grunts, leaning over you to yank your shirt above your chest, his hand grasping your breast. He likes the softness, the give to your skin, even if your months Underground have caused them to lose some of their volume when you lost quite a bit of weight. Sans never complains, instead holding them possessively and rolling his thumb over the tip of a pert nipple. 

You moan, locking your legs over his hips to draw him in even deeper, and he muffles the sounds your making with his teeth. You can taste your arousal on his tongue as he plunges it into your mouth, dominating yours and drinking in your taste, swallowing your moans and little gasps. The pace he sets is rougher than usual; there's no build-up with this punishment, but you're so turned on that it doesn't hurt. Sans drills himself into you, losing himself to the feeling of your soft flesh beneath his unyielding bone, and when he breaks the kiss, his mouth goes to your neck.

He's always been fascinated with it, perhaps because he can feel your jumping pulse beneath his tongue when he glides across the side of it, leaving a white-hot trail of tingling magic on your skin. There's a scar on your shoulder, barely hidden by your shirt, from your first night with him. He had broken the skin when he claimed you, left his mark permanently in a way that _might_ protect you if another monster came upon you. After all, Sans (who Papyrus told you was once incredibly well-liked, funny, and a sociable prankster) was the most feared monster in Snowdin, despite the fact that it was his brother who was the Royal Guard Captain, while he was still merely a sentry. In fact, he had obtained the moniker The Butcher of Snowdin Forest for his skill with that bone ax and ruthless nature. 

And yet, here you were, bound to him in an irrevocable way--in a way you had assented to, and continued to relish, forsaking anything that he did outside of the house. 

His tongue circles around the scar as he pulls your shirt away from your shoulder, and then he pulls back to look at it. When he releases the fabric, it snaps over the scar. 

"fuck it," he grunts, thrusting in deep and swiveling his hips in a slow torturous way he discovered you liked. You gasp, clutching one of his ribs (which makes him suck in a deep, ragged breath through his nasal cavity), and he licks the area right beside the juncture of your neck and shoulder. "i'm marking you where everyone can see. i don't care if paps knows anymore."

He was going to bite you again? "Sans, wait, I..."

"you don't want my mark?" he growls against your neck, his teeth already clamping over his chosen spot.

You didn't really want to have that talk with Papyrus; the two of you had kept it a secret to avoid any awkwardness. And you didn't really want to endure the stinging pain that came with being bitten, either.

"It hurts, though," you protest as he pulls back his grueling pace to shallow thrusts, just enough to be distracting. 

"shouldn't have wasted food then," he mutters, and you can feel his body tense; he's starting to come back into reality, and reality is a dark place. You tighten your legs around him, trying to drag him deeper. He's unhinged sometimes--unpredictable--but you feel like you glimpse a little more of the real him, the Sans that used to be the life of the party, when he's lost within you. 

"Sans--"

And then he bites down, hard. You try to squirm, but he pins you beneath his weight, and when there's a slight give to his teeth, you know he's broken skin. 

"Shit, Sans!" you hiss, instinctually reaching out to grab onto his skull and attempt to dislodge his grip (it's sore, even though his magical tongue sliding across the wound actually doesn't make it feel all that bad, but _still_ ), and... your fingers accidentally slide inside the jagged hole on top of his skull, gripping the edge.

At once, both of you freeze. You've never touched his head wound (it's always been a sensitive subject), but from the way he releases your shoulder and slowly pulls back to glower down at you, you instantly realize you've made a terrible error. Hastily, you snatch your hand away from the crack.

And then his hand curls around your throat and he resumes his thrusts. His hips crash into yours harder, the crests of his pelvis chaffing against your inner thighs, and he squeezes his fingers into your throat. 

"can't keep your hands where they belong, huh?" he growls, blood from your shoulder staining his teeth. His fingers are digging into the bite mark, heightening the pain, while at the same time, he kisses you hard. You can taste your own blood, but at the same time, he clenches his fingers tighter, and then--

\--you can't breathe.

Yet your senses are only heightened, and when he eases up on his grip, you gasp, dragging in a shaking breath. He could choke you out in a frenzy, you realize--for a moment, you thought he was enraged enough to do it--but he doesn't. Even if he is unstable, even if he's come home with dust and gore both spackling his clothing, you... you trust him.

"you're _mine_ , human. i'll mark you however i see fit. i'll fuck you however--whenever--i want." He's still incensed, that rolling eyelight burning bright. "you're alive because i allow it."

"I know, Sans," you whisper, your hands rising to his ribs, fingernails raking along the bone in a way that made him shudder. "I'm all yours."

Something in the way you say it seems to placate him; he eases up on his grip on your neck and leans down to lightly lick the bite mark, his magic making it feel numb. "good," he mumbles against it, before kissing you again, hard and possessive. His fingers tighten on your throat again, just enough to restrict your airflow, but this time, it feels better; he's more gentle, yet still firm. Finally, he releases your neck entirely, not wanting to make the bite mark too sore, and pins your wrists above your head with one hand again, the other moving between your moving bodies to focus on the bundle of nerves between your thighs. 

"cum for me, human. i want to feel it," he demands breathlessly, and you know he's getting quite close. He's moving his hips in just the right angle--the one he knows by now drives you wild--and working small, quick circles with his fingertips. It isn't long before you're bucking your hips up to meet his, gasping and moaning, while he watches you begin to come undone. In the end, it's the way he grazes his teeth along your nipple that pushes you over the edge, making you clench tight around him, and you feel his tense up at the same time. 

His pace slows, working you down from your high, while at the same time, you can feel something dripping out from you. Sans's breathing is ragged as he collapses on top of you, his bones scraping against your sensitive breasts. He remains like he is for a while, still connected, before he finally dismisses his magic and rolls over beside you. He drags you halfway on top of him while you catch your breath, his arm around your shoulders and your head tucked beneath his chin, cheek resting on his balled up shirt over his sternum. 

After a moment of shared silence (except for labored breathing), Sans asks, "did'ya learn your lesson, kiddo?"

It takes you a minute to remember that this was supposed to be a punishment, when all it felt like was a reward.

"Yeah... don't waste food," you answer, snuggling closer to his side.

"that's right." His voice sounds a little more subdued, without the growl it held during your shared coital bliss. He presses his teeth to your shoulder in a gentle skeleton kiss. "you're mine. i don't want you to starve."

"I know, Sans. I don't want you to starve, either, you know," you point out, your fingers skimming over his ribs. 

"just let me do the worrying, ok?"

"Does that mean you'll tell Papyrus why there's a bite mark on my shoulder? Because that's a conversation I'm worrying about."

You can hear Sans's smirk in his voice when he replies with, "i'll just tell him i got hungry and wanted a little taste."

You swat his sternum. "Sans! Then he might try to get a nibble in, too."

That seems to sober him up a little. "i told you i want everyone to know you're mine. paps included. i'm sure he'll be thrilled. probably start calling ya sister or something." 

You had both agreed not to tell Papyrus because you didn't want him to start pressuring you to go on _dates_ (he had a weird manual he had already told you about), or start discussing marriage and monster mating with you. He already seemed like a hopeless romantic by how into the Mettaton special he could get, and having that kind of pressure on your quasi-relationship with Sans didn't seem like a good idea at the time.

But now... the fact that he wanted Papyrus to know was enough to make you smile. 

When you had fallen into this hellhole, the you that had existed on the Surface had died; you had given up hope on ever having a future, just as Sans had when he lost bits of his memory--of himself--and allowed his nihilism to reign while he became The Snowdin Butcher.

There had been no point in telling Papyrus because you would inevitably die--and when you did, either the skeleton brothers or some other monster would devour you for sustenance. So the fact that Sans was willing to tell him meant that he was determined to protect you, that this relationship had given him the tiniest spark of hope for a future.

And as you fell asleep with your skeletal lover threading his fingers through your matted hair, your arms tightened around his ribs, and you realized in that moment that who you were wasn't dead--and neither was your hope.

Your hope was right here, and his arm was wound tight around you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys know I'm a sinner at this point. 
> 
> [So you might as well join me in hell on tumblr.](https://tyranttortoise.tumblr.com/) I'm playing catch-up on my writing right now, but feel free to still submit prompts, imagines, and headcanon requests. And hey, if you like smut, go check out my ongoing fanfic, [Broken Promises and Timelines.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8606821/chapters/19737664)


	2. Cake and Candles (Underfell)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *It's your birthday, and Underfell Grillby is interested in granting your wish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one-shot is Reader/UF!Grillbz smut written for the amazing [nighttimelights](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nighttimelights/pseuds/nighttimelights). Her birthday was the 17th (which, coincidentally, mine was too! We're birthday twins!), and she always makes me such glorious pixel art that a nice, smutty one-shot was a long time coming! ;)  
> (By the way, [here's the link to her pixel art tumblr blog](https://nighttimepixels.tumblr.com/). I definitely recommend checking her out!)
> 
>  _some keywords for this chapter_ :  
> jealousy, alcohol, drunken embarrassment, hot and cold, fire dick, fucking literal fire, a liiiittttle bit of burning, possessive!Grillbz

**Underfell: Grillby **

You stare, mesmerized, as indigo fire dances and crackles, the shades melding together. You have always been fascinated by those flames, the subtle differences in hues, the way they seem edged with cobalt blue and could shift to indicate mood. 

It was like the monster equivalent of a mood ring. 

".....no, it's not."

Shit, did you say that out loud? Your gaze shifts from the fiery tendrils that are undulating and twisting upward, to the two orbs of white-hot light that denote Grillby's optics, judging you from over fashionable wire-framed spectacles. Darker shades of purple flames are knitted together in fabricated eyebrows, conveying his annoyance at your state. 

"Sorry," you squeak, embarrassed. The flamesman sighs, shifting your weight in his arms as he attempts to both carry you and fish out the key that unlocks the upstairs of his establishment. With a jarring, annoyed pop of his flames, Grillby gives up and sets you down, and you clutch the box you're holding to your chest, trying not to let it slip from your grasp even as you stumble into the side of the wall. 

It's not the first time you've gotten a little too drunk at Grillby's and had to stay the night in the fire elemental's home. But it is the first time he's seemed so irritated over it. Usually, he would just smirk and make a few suggestive comments (that he never acted upon, much to your chagrin; you had been flirting heavily with him for months and wanted nothing more than his hands all over you) before dumping you on the couch and disappearing into his bedroom. When you woke up, he'd already be downstairs, so you'd go apologize, he'd shrug it off, and you'd be on your way.

He opens the door and strides inside without offering your his arm like he usually does. You can feel the irritation radiating from him in waves, and as he removes his fur-lined coat and neatly deposits it on the coat rack, you can see just how tense his body is beneath his fitted dress attire. He doesn't flip on the lights, so the only illumination comes from Grillby, but his flames are bright enough that the entire room is cast in a soft, indigo glow.

You meekly follow, closing the door behind you and then standing with your back against it, biting your lower lip. This is just great. You've upset him, when you wanted nothing more than to spend time with him tonight. You should have known better than to drink so much, but you couldn't help it; not when all of your friends (and even strangers) kept buying you drinks, laughing and encouraging you.

Though the sudden influx of free drinks had everything to do with the special occasion--and the bright, gaudy "IT'S MY BIRTHDAY!!" pin you had affixed to the front of your dress. 

"I-I should just go," you remark, causing Grillby to whip around, his jagged mouth pulled down in a semblance of a scowl. Your gaze drops to his chest, focusing on the red tie that contrasts his dark ensemble. "I can call a cab... or an Uber or something."

".....come here."

You look up, confused. His expression is still the same, but his flames seem darker, shadowing the features of his face. "W-what?"

"You heard me," he answers simply, the words practically a growl beneath the distortion of crackling fire that always accompanies his speech. It reminds you of someone speaking while simultaneously stoking an enormous bonfire.

Reluctantly, you obey, pushing your back off the door and stumbling forward. You're still drunk, and the world shifts around you, but you manage to cross the room and stand in front of Grillby. You sway on your feet a little, but keep your focus on his tie. 

A hand touches your chin, the heat almost too hot against your skin. You know he's upset with you if his touch is that hot; he usually exhibits expert control over his body's temperature, unless he has to literally burn his point into an unruly patron. Even so, you don't flinch. You're not afraid of Grillby--you'd _never_ be afraid of Grillby. 

After all, you've been crushing on him for months now, and those feelings have only become more and more intense.

He tilts your chin up, coaxing you to meet his gaze. "You're still drunk..... do you honestly think I'd let you get in a stranger's car?"

His scowl softens, and you clutch the box you're holding tighter. "But... you're upset," you point out.

"......i'm not," he claims, his fingers dropping from your chin. You instantly feel cold, but he takes the box from you before you can reach for him. "Come... sit at the table..."

He strides to the small dining room table and sets down the box. His upstairs living space isn't that large; the living room and kitchen adjoin, separated by an island counter with barstools in front of it. The bathroom and his bedroom are down the hall. 

You've only seen the interior of his bedroom once, and you were too drunk to remember it as more than a failed seduction attempt on your part. Grillby was kind enough not to rub it in your face afterward. 

You take a seat at the table, but Grillby continues to stand, skimming his fingers lightly over the top of the white, cardboard box. He had pulled it out from behind the bar, but you had yet to glimpse its contents. At that point, you had been obliviously dancing to a song playing on the jukebox, while a reptilian monster kept trying to touch you, to dance along with you. You had simply batted his wandering hands away each time, too lost in your favorite song to let the unwanted dance partner bother you. 

And then suddenly, you had heard a yelp and your dance partner ran out of the door. After that, the few remaining stragglers in the bar had left, and Grillby and thrust the box into your hands and scooped you up into his arms to carry you upstairs. 

".....here." He slides the box closer to you, but still doesn't take a seat. He still seems so tight, so agitated, and you feel apologies bubble up in your throat again. However, your curiosity supersedes the impulse, your fingers brushing the edges of the box like it was some sort of mysterious treasure. You had been too preoccupied with his displeasure to consider the implications of the box. 

"Did you get me a present?"

He curtly nods, before gesturing to it with a wave of his hand, indicating you to open it. All of your anxiety melts away, and you hurriedly peel back the top, a light gasp escaping you when you spot the birthday cake within. The icing is in your favorite color, the circumference rimmed with jagged lines indicative of dancing flames, with "Happy Birthday" and your name scrawled inside the middle. While you're transfixed on the cake, Grillby moves to his hanging jacket and retrieves something from the pocket, only to come back and begin inserting candles.

"Did you make this?" you ask, your voice barely above an awe-struck whisper.

He nods again, carefully finishing the arrangement of candles. "....it's not like I would ever buy from Muffet's bakery," he remarks with a tinge of amusement in his tone. You should've guessed that; the two competitors are fierce rivals. Sans had drunkenly hinted to you once that something had happened to spark the feud in the Underground, but you had never pressed for details. If she was a lover scorned, you really didn't want the mental images of a naked spider woman associated with your thoughts of Grillby.

"It's beautiful. Thank you." Your voice is suddenly thick. You never expected him to actually _bake you a cake._ You had never seen him do it for any of the other patrons. Just looking at it makes you absurdly happy. 

He grunts in response, before holding his hand over the candles. In the next moment, every single one of them suddenly has a flickering, purple flame on the end. You glance up at him with such a wide, genuine smile, that his scowl lifts into his usual sharp smirk. 

You feel his fingers touch your back, brushing against your skin (you're suddenly glad you wore a dress with a tie at the neck, leaving a circular portion of your back exposed). Your face flushes slightly at the feeling; his touch isn't as hot anymore, but it still tingles pleasantly as he traces small designs against your flesh. He's behind you now, leaning over your chair so that his head is right beside your face, filling your peripheral with a soft, indigo glow and a warmth that makes your blush feel so much more intense. 

"Make a wish," he instructs, his voice a murmured growl directly beside your ear, inciting a small pleasurable shiver to run along your spine. 

You continue staring at the flickering flames of the candles and suck in a deep breath, making a silent wish. You blow out all the candles, leaving wisps of smoke, tinted the same dark purple hue as Grillby's magic, curling toward the ceiling. 

"I can't believe you baked me a cake," the incredulous words tumble past your lips before you even have a chance to consider how rude they sound. The feeling of his thumb tracing a small line along your shoulder blade, just barely dipping beneath the fabric of your dress, has you feeling hyperaware of his every movement. Your head still feels a little fuzzy, but you're unsure if the dizziness is just from his close proximity and the heat emanating from right beside your cheek, or if you're still feeling that drunk. You swallow past the building lump in your throat. "Can I... have a piece now?" Your voice nearly breaks as his entire hand slides down the back of your dress, and your feel his fingers follow the edge of your bra. 

A ruminating sound issues from the back of his throat, and you slowly turn your head toward him. His white-hot smirk has cracked across his entire face, and even his eyes seem brighter, more mischievous. This is the response you had been expecting when he carried you upstairs. This is your usual relationship with the bartender--casual touches, flirtatious grins, and teasing words.

"....only if you tell me what you wished for."

You feel the heat return to your cheeks, and although you hope the glow of his flames covers your blush, you know that isn't the case. Grillby has nearly flawless night-vision. "I can't tell you," you demurely reply, "or else it won't come true."

His hand withdraws from the back of your shirt, leaving your flushed skin feeling unpleasantly cool, and you actually whimper before you can stop yourself. He seems to hesitate at the sound, his flames crackling in the semblance of a deep chuckle. Shifting to stand beside you, rather than being bent over behind you, the bartender starts to move the cake away from you. 

"Well, you don't get to taste the cake... How disappointing. After I went through the trouble... of baking it for you."

"Nooo, I wanna taste it!" Impulsively, your hand shoots out to grasp his wrist and attempt to stop him. He releases the plate to let you drag his arm away from it, and you end up clinging to his forearm with both arms, essentially hugging it to your chest. He quirks a fiery brow, but doesn't complain, not even when your slide your fingers inside the sleeve of his dress shirt. Your fingertips pass harmlessly through his flames, but you always found yourself fascinated by his body and the way it could feel so solid, like a corporeal form veiled in hot, rolling fire. The flames leave your fingers feeling tingly, and your roll the fiery tendrils across your fingertips, momentarily forgetting that you are holding onto his arm for a reason.

"I love the feeling of your flames."

"I know," he responds, sounding amused.

That's an admission you only voice when you're fueled by liquid courage. It's not the first time you've touched his hand in an inebriated state. After all, there's still the failed seduction attempt hanging over your head.

Thinking of it puts a bit of a damper on your mirthful mood.

You had been way too drunk that night, you recall, after a bout of stress-drinking on a Saturday night with Sans. You had been intoxicated enough that after Grillby unceremoniously dropped you onto his couch, you had snagged his crimson tie and attempted to drag him on top of you. He had, of course, slipped from your grasp and brought you a bottle of water to drink, snapping at you to _sober up_ , but shortly after he retired to his bedroom, you had decided to forgo his sagely advice and follow after him. 

As you padded down the hallway, you had divested yourself of your dress, and then proceeded to let yourself into his room. 

The next moments were a blur, but you're fairly certain that you climbed into Grillby's bed in your lingerie. You remember his flames being really bright that night, and Grillby struggling to get your dress back over your head. You ended up sleeping in his bed while he took the couch, and the next day, he pretended that nothing had happened (although he was especially grumpy to his patrons during the day, as Sans later remarked). Steeped in mortification, you were more than happy to keep up the farce.

Your expression begins to falter, the swift sting of old rejection cutting through your haze, and you pull your fingers from beneath his sleeve as if you'd been burned. It had only been a month since that incident, but you'd carefully danced around the subject. 

"It's stupid," you murmur, and Grillby's smirk begins to shrink.

"....what is?"

"My wish. That's why I don't wanna tell you." You need to do something with your hands, so you begin plucking the candles from the top of the cake and neatly setting them in the bottom of the box. "It's not like it'll ever come true."

"Tell me, anyway... Maybe I could help grant it," he offers with a tilt of his head, trying to understand your shifting emotions. 

You scoff, bringing the base of a candle to your tongue to taste the icing. Grillby's gaze follows your tongue as it moves along the wax, but you don't notice. The icing tastes delicious, and you really want to try the cake... 

So you lie.

"I wished for a lot of money."

Grillby blinks, caught off-guard by your simple answer. 

"So, if you wanna help with that..." You trail off, forcing a grin his way. He crackles and shakes his head, moving toward the kitchen to get a knife and a plate. Grillby is notoriously tight with his money, often doubling or tripling the price of something if a patron slights him even a little. From what Sans has let slip, it seems that Grillby's become more lenient than he was in the Underground, so you can only imagine what his reputation was there. 

".....you're on your own," he replies as he cuts you a sizable slice of cake, sticks a fork in the top, and then slides the plate in front of you. You dig in immediately and unabashedly moan from the incredible taste. This is the first baked good of Grillby's that you've ever tasted, and it's absolutely delectable. And it happens to be your favorite flavor, which you're surprised he got right. 

"This is seriously the best cake I've ever had," you inform him around a mouthful of pastry. He smirks wider, pulling out a chair beside you to finally sit. After a moment, he reaches toward your face and rubs his thumb against the corner of your mouth. You automatically freeze.

"....got some icing there."

Before he can pull his thumb away, you run your tongue along the pad, tasting the icing he had just wiped from your lip. His flame tingles even more on your tongue, almost like an electric spark rippling throughout your body. The white orbs of his optics widen, but he doesn't remove his thumb. You take the opportunity to draw it into your mouth, holding the digit between your teeth and lapping your tongue along it. It feels so interesting; his flames dance along your tongue, growing hotter yet not scalding. He finally pulls his hand back, and you realize that you've set your fork down to grab onto his tie, attempting to pull him closer.

Just like you did that night last month.

You practically throw the fabric back at his chest and pick up the plate, standing to move to the kitchen. You need some space to breathe; the air is so thick around Grillby right now that you can barely seem to catch your breath. Or maybe it's just that you can't stop thinking about that night, about the flirting leading up to it, and the subsequent flirting since. If you hadn't been drinking, it would be so easy to bury those toxic thoughts, but right now, you feel so confused. 

Is he just a natural flirt? He has been known to flirt with the patrons, yes, but not to the level that you and him flirt. 

You turn around, and Grillby's standing right there. He strides forward, and you step backward, until your back is literally against the wall. A purple glow washes over you as he looms above, planting a hand on either side of your head and effectively trapping you between his arms. 

"Something's on your mind...." he observes, quirking a brow as he waits for you to elaborate. 

"'s not," you mumble, dropping your gaze to his chest again. You want to touch it, to splay your fingers against the firm plane of his chest, feeling his warmth seep into your palms through his dress shirt.

So you do.

"....your eyes keep becoming glassy."

"Just watering from the heat," you lie, and he immediately begins to draw away, but you push forward to wind your arms around his neck, your body going flush against his. He feels even hotter now that you're lined up with him, and you murmur against his neck, "Thanks for the cake, Grillbz."

His arms slide around you, one across your lower back and the other feeling the exposed skin on your back again. It feels so nice that you sigh against his flames, your lips just barely brushing the side of his neck. Grillby crackles, one of his arms tightening, pulling your hips closer to his. 

It feels so close to a lover's embrace. You reach to loosen his tie, to pull the collar away from his neck. Your lips plant there again, this time more firmly, your tongue tentatively flicking from between your lips. He tilts his head, giving you better access, and his hand suddenly feels much warmer on your back. 

Quietly, you admit, "I lied about my wish."

With a groan, Grillby pulls his head back, and before you even have a chance to feel confused, he kisses you, hard.

Kissing a man made of literal fire is a new experience for you. His face is as firm as his body, but his mouth is much hotter than the rest of his flames and completely dry. His tongue is solid, for the most part, but it seems to have a wisping flame that's capable of curling and winding around yours, encasing it with heated, tingling magic that steals your breath and turns your knees to jello. Luckily, Grillby has a solution for that; he pins you against the wall, one hand gripping the side of your ass, and the other forcing your back to arch and your chest to press against his. 

You're certain that your heart is beating hard enough against your ribcage that he can feel the rhythm himself.

He's an expert kisser, his sharp teeth catching your bottom lip and causing your fingers to dig into his back. His flames are crackling and popping, and you catch a slight groan on one of his exhales that only sets your arousal aflame. 

_Damn, he's hot._

He breaks the meld of your lips to trail that magical tongue along the side of your neck, drinking in the taste of your flesh. You grip the collar of his dress shirt in both hands, procuring a tether to reality as his every touch makes you feel even dizzier. 

"....is this... what you wished for?"

You can only nod, your voice coming out in a weak moan as you feel his sharp teeth graze against your shoulder. He pulls the dress off to the side, and you suddenly feel as if both of you are wearing entirely too much clothing. You start fumbling with the buttons of his dress shirt, not even noticing that your fingers are trembling. 

Once his tie is pulled loose, you sling it into the floor. 

Much better.

Your fingers splay across his chest again, only this time, you can feel the hardened planes without a barrier of fabric. Somehow, he has a muscular definition beneath the flames dancing across the surface; you can feel the dips and divots as you explore. 

"I always wondered what your chest would feel like, under the shirt..." you breathlessly muse as he continues to lavish your neck with peppered fire kisses and soft nips. 

You feel him smirk against your skin. "....shall we go to the bedroom?"

Again, you feel a spark of that memory--that rejection--creep into your mind. 

"The last time I went into your bedroom..." You trail off, unable to finish the thought. Grillby pulls back from your neck to search your gaze, understanding dawning on his face.

"...is that... what you've been thinking about?"

You shrug, looking down at your fingers spread across his chest. 

"I thought... you were too drunk to remember..."

"That you weren't interested?" you attempt to finish his thought. 

He grabs your chin again, his face so close that the white orbs of his eyes take up most of your vision. "Is that really what you think? That I... didn't want you?" He crackles louder, abruptly pulling your hips firmly against his. He grinds his pelvis into yours, and you can feel a distinct firmness pressing against your thigh. 

"I just wanted you... to be able to remember every moment of it... to want me in your right mind," he insists, and suddenly, you chest feels so much lighter. 

"You've wanted me?"

He grinds harder against you. "...isn't it obvious?" With his jagged smirk spreading, he effortlessly scoops you up into his arms, carrying you bridal style into his bedroom. He dumps you onto his bed, and your back bounces on the mattress, but the flamesman is on you in the next moment. "You have no idea how much I've wanted you..." he murmurs against your ear, his hands slowly pushing your dress upward, up past your hips. His fingertips skim along your stomach, traveling upward to pull the clothing completely above your head. Greedily, his gaze drinks in your lingerie-clad form, appearing so pleased that you're not even concerned by the fact that your didn't wear a matching bra-and-panties combo tonight. 

"You...have...?" you press, feeling short-of-breath. The air around him really is humid right now; you feel like you're breathing in pure heat. 

"It drove me crazy when you were dancing tonight....and that bastard kept trying to touch you," he growls, his hands roaming your body, exploring all the exposed skin he can. 

"Is that why you were in a bad mood earlier?" you voice, thinking back to how tense he was when you first arrived upstairs. You had thought he was annoyed that you drank so much again. It never occurred to you that he was jealous of the reptilian monster that kept trying to dance with you.

One of his hands grips your thigh. "You're _mine._ " The possessive note only fuels your arousal. You've been wanting to hear that for months now. "And I don't share."

He kisses you again, his tongue dominating your mouth, while his hand works beneath the cup of your bra to palm your breast. The heat against your nipple elicits a sharp moan from you, the sound muffled by his mouth. You start fumbling with the buttons of his shirt again, before you get annoyed and just give it a hard pull to pop the last two buttons off. 

Grillby pulls back slightly. "...did you just...?"

"Shhhh." You grip his neck with the other arm and pull yourself off the mattress to silence him with another kiss. 

Grillby complies and resumes the kiss, his hand moving to the mid-front of your bra. He snags the fabric connecting the two cups and pulls upward... and in the next moment, your bra comes undone and the two cups fall against your arms, your breasts exposed. 

He literally burned your bra.

You make a sound in the back of your throat and push against his chest, turning your head to break the kiss. "That was my favorite bra!"

The flamesman shrugs. "... this was my favorite shirt." His smirk isn't vindictive, however, but playful--challenging you to further question the fairness. Instead, you just roll your eyes and pull your arms from the straps, discarding your broken bra in the floor. 

"Fine, fine."

Grillby makes you forget about your ruined lingerie, however, by dipping his head down to close his mouth around your breast, his tongue wrapping around the bud. Your back arches off the mattress, your fingernails digging into his sides as he flicks his tongue against it. 

"Your pants," you gasp, struggling to reach the buckle of his belt. "Take them off."

His crackling sounds like a chuckle, and his breath is extra-hot against your skin. Instead of complying, he just moves further down your body, trailing his tongue across your stomach. Your hands slide up, one touching his shoulder and the other stroking the flames that make up a semblance of hair. 

You want to complain that he's still wearing too much clothing, but the words die in your throat the moment he yanks your panties aside to lap his fire tongue along your soaked bundle of nerves. You end up gripping the side of his head, your legs draped over his shoulders as he lifts your pelvis from the mattress to get a better angle--one where he can watch you writhe over the rim of his glasses. 

You sputter incoherently as his tongue swirls along your most sensitive flesh, fragments of words and thought shattering as soon as that fiery tongue delves within you, reaching much further than any human tongue could. His magic makes you tingle, and although his mouth and tongue is dry, the heat and that electric ripple sparking from his flames feels better than anything you've ever experienced. 

"Gr--ah--grill...llll...byy," you manage, a broken form of his name coming out in a shuddering moan. 

"Mmm?" The inquisitive noise only vibrates against you, and the way you dig your fingers into his head would likely be painful if he wasn't a Boss Monster. 

"I... I'm getting close, and I wa--want _you_." You're not even sure if you're getting your point across, but after a few more languid licks, he lifts his head and grips your panties in his hands. You're barely able to help him move them down your legs; you're so turned on, so desperate to have him in the most intimate way possible, that you sit up and go for his belt buckle as soon as your legs are free. 

He quirks a brow at your behavior, his jagged smirk amused, but he makes no move to help you. You fumble with the button again, your hands still a little shaky--especially when he moves his hand between your legs, slowly stroking his fingers against you to keep you on a climatic cusp. You moan, your forehead resting against his shoulder, and he chuckles again, his motions slow and skillfully deliberate.

When you finally have the button and zipper undone, you push his pants down his hips. Surprisingly, Grillby's going commando, so once his pants are down far enough, his magical shaft springs to attention. It's the same deep purple as the rest of his body, shaped much like a human phallus, only with lapping flames swirling around the outside. Reaching out, you grip his shaft and experimentally slide your hand along it, feeling the flames lick against your palm. It's firm, and when your palm glides across its bulbous head, Grillby plunges his fingers deeper within you, loudly crackling. 

You pick up the pace for a few more strokes, before he finally catches your wrist and lies you back on the bed. Grillby stands only to kick off his pants and divest himself of his opened shirt, before returning to the mattress and settling between your thighs. 

He catches your gaze. "....ready?"

You nod, wrapping your legs around his hips. Taking the invitation, he lines himself up and then slowly slides inside. You've never felt anything quite like it. His shaft is hot enough to be close to uncomfortable, but the tingle of his magic more than makes up for it. When he buries himself in to the hilt, the flamesman leans over you, supporting his weight on his elbows, and claims your mouth yet again. 

Feeling his tongue moving along yours, mimicking the motions of your lower halves, leaves you moaning and gasping, feeling light-headed again. You're sweating, and your hair is clinging to your neck, but over-heating is worth it at this point. You'll rehydrate later. 

".... you feel so.... amazing," Grillby crackles when he breaks the kiss, once again pressing his mouth against the side of your neck. You rake your fingernails along his back, tightening your legs around his hips to draw him in closer--deeper--feeling the rippling flames inside you reach just the right spot. 

"I want everyone to know you're _mine_.... I don't want anyone else to touch you like this." His voice is a possessive growl that only stokes the fire building inside you. 

"I don't, either. I just... I just want _you_ ," you insist, feeling elated and dotting the side of his neck with open-mouthed kisses. "I want you to be mine, too."

He continues his rhythm, his thrusts becoming harder, bringing you closer and closer to the brink of oblivion. 

"...i'm all yours," he growls into your ear, and you hold onto him tighter, clinging to him. You can feel his chest rub against your breasts with every forward thrust, the tingling friction making you moan against his shoulder. It feels so good; you're almost there...

And then he thrusts in deep and does a little swivel with his hips, and you come completely undone. 

With a loud, gasping moan, you cling tighter to him, your back arching off the mattress. His arms are around you, one of his hands gripping your shoulder blade, and as he begins to climax as well, his crackling becoming the roar of a campfire, there's a sudden sharp pain there that makes you hiss through clenched teeth and jerk away. It quickly becomes dulled by the tingle of magic, so you wonder if perhaps his climax just made his control slip and his temperature spike. 

After a few moments of panting, Grillby pulls out of you and rolls to the side, giving you a chance to finally breathe. You had thought you were going to pass out for a moment there, but instead, you feel like you just spent entirely too long in a sauna. The covers are sticky against your skin, and that doesn't particularly make you feel attractive. 

Yet, Grillby's staring at you with complete and utter adoration.

The flame elemental wiggles his arm out from beneath your back and departs to the kitchen while you're still dazed. You can feel liquid magic oozing out of you and coating your thighs, which surprises you because you weren't sure if that was possible for a fire monster. 

Well, _the more you know._

Grillby returns with a bottle of water, and you sit up to begin taking greedy gulps. 

"...pace yourself," he advises, and you slow down your intake. You no longer feel drunk at all, but you assume that had to do with the cake; certain monster foods could negate the effects of monster alcohol. That was another tidbit Sans had shared with you, whenever you discovered he used to drink on the job. 

"Thanks," you say with a contented sigh when you've finished half the bottle. "That was... amazing."

Grillby smirks and sits beside you on the edge of the bed. He's got a pair of pajama pants on now, and he's holding something in his palm. "....did your wish come true?"

Grinning, you lean against his side, and he tilts his head against yours. "Yeah... yeah, it did."

"....good." 

"I'm going to take a shower, though. I feel really sweaty and gross."

Before you can move to stand, he cuts you off. "Wait. Let me put something on your back first." He holds out a small circular compact, and when he opens it, there appears to be a gel inside. You're confused until you remember the pain you had felt. 

"Oh, did I get burned?" You roll your shoulder forward, and sure enough, you feel a flash of pain. Grillby is quick to rub some of the gel on your shoulder blade, and the pain instantly dissipates, replaced by a cool feeling, like putting aloe on a sunburn, only much stronger. 

"Yes. This is water-proof, and it will help." He doesn't apologize for the burn, but you're still on so much of a post-coital high that you barely notice. 

"Thanks." You move again to stand, and Grillby stands with you, catching your face to tip your chin up and kiss you again. Your heart soars as he smoothes the hair away from your face, pulling back to hold your gaze.

"....happy birthday, Y/n."

"Thank you, Grillby," you return, rocking up on the balls of your feet to kiss him again. The kiss lingers, but when you finally break it, you step around him and head to the bathroom. 

When you check the burn in the mirror, you realize he left a hand-print across your shoulder blade-- a phantom hand laying claim to you even now. His growled words suddenly spring back into your mind.

 _"I want everyone to know you're_ mine _."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always,[ my tumblr can be found here.](https://tyranttortoise.tumblr.com/) I do imagines, answer asks, and talk about update schedules for my other fics.


	3. Resonance with Rus (Swapfell)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *You've been friends with Rus for a while, but all the flirting seems to have come to a head when you both realize there's something _resonating_ between you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a raffle winner one-shot sin for awesometurtletails!  
> She requested Swapfell Papyrus discovering his soulmate--with smut! <3 Hope you like it!
> 
> **Swapfell Papyrus x Reader**
> 
>  _Keywords:_  
>  soulmate, soul resonance, friends-to-lovers, piercings, marking, female reader, 69'ing

**Swapfell: Papyrus **

"hey, where are ya goin'? c'mere, darlin'."

Papyrus pulls you back into the booth and onto his lap. You squirm, laughing, and push lightly against his chest. The action is a farce; you don't want to break his hold on you, and from the smirk that crosses his sharp teeth, he knows it too.

"I was just going to get another round and maybe order some fries. I'm starting to get hungry," you inform him, one of your arms looping around his neck. You've been friends with Papyrus for nearly six months now. What started as little flirty conversations at Muffet's had turned into hangouts at his house, eating dinner with him and his brother (although the burritos tore your stomach to shreds every time you actually gave in and ate one), and exchanging flirtatious texts each night. There was a definite mutual attraction, and you both ended up comfortable enough with one another for plenty of physical contact, but you'd never taken it further than that. There had never been a kiss, other than one on the cheekbone, and the innuendo remained mere implications of what could be. 

But tonight, Papyrus was in a good mood that had everything to do with how much vodka he had mixed with his barbeque sauce. His arms went around your waist, dragging you closer to his fur-lined coat, and his face dropped to your neck, where he shook his head.

"nope. you can stay right here and feed _my_ hunger instead."

His breath is so warm against your neck, and his voice comes out in a low, rough baritone that you've fallen asleep listening to on the phone on more than one occasion. You ramp up the flirting by fingering the processes of the vertebrae of his neck--a touch you know he loves--and make a thoughtful sound in the back of your throat.

"Hmmm..." Your fingers curl so your fingernails rake along his spine, and you immediately feel him shiver in response, his breath hitching and arms tightening. "Just what are you hungry for, Rus?" 

You can feel his teeth move against the side of your neck when he answers, "somethin' i've been dyin' to taste for so long, darlin'." He pulls back enough to meet your gaze. His eyelights are bright orange pin-pricks that search your eyes, and you understand immediately that this is your chance. If you want to take things further than just flirtatious remarks and arms around one another in the dark, then you can.

And boy, do you ever.

"What's stopping you?" you whisper, the query holding the hint of a challenge as your lips curve in a smirk. 

Papyrus takes that as his answer, and in the next moment, his teeth crash on your lips. There's nothing gentle about this first kiss with a skeleton man. Instead, there's a tinge of desperation, of longing, of too much pent-up sexual tension. He's not slicing through that tension with a knife--no, he's crashing through it with a wrecking ball, destroying whatever barrier had kept him in-check. 

And that barrier happens to be your mouth, you discover, as his sharp fangs poke into your lips, forcing them apart so his tongue can thrust inside. You're nearly overwhelmed by the sensation, but this kiss is something you've been fantasizing about for months, yet much too nervous to make the first move. Your hand grips his neck, the other fisting in the front of his coat, holding onto him like a lifeline as you feel your head swim. Is this really happening? 

His tongue dominates yours, magical tingles from it sending sparks straight into your abdomen that already has you turned on and ready, your body screaming for him to keep going. You can taste the sweet barbeque sauce on his tongue, a hint of vodka lurking in the flavor, yet it feels as if _you're_ the one getting drunk off the kiss. Your teeth graze his tongue, and your mouth muffles his groan.

Suddenly, he twists in the booth, spinning so your back is against the wall and his taller form and fluffy jacket is obscuring the bar's view of you. The entire time, he never breaks the kiss, but you feel his hands touch bare skin--one grips your outer thigh from where the position change has caused your skirt to rise, and the other skims along the skin of your side, having slipped beneath the hem of your shirt. 

It's going fast, and you're _in public_ , but somehow you don't care. Your body is hot-- _so hot, is that because of his magic?_ \--and your chest feels so tight that you could burst if he doesn't just _touch you_. Your breathing has turned heavy and ragged into the kiss, your head lolled back against the wall, and you reach out, shoving your hands beneath his sweater to grip the crests of his hips and attempt to drag him closer. 

His large hand palms your breast through your bra just as you both hear someone clear their throat rather loudly from behind you. Instantly, you freeze, withdrawing your hands from the inside of his sweater in favor of straightening your clothing, while Papyrus finally breaks the kiss. A thin line of mixed saliva and magic stretches between your mouths before it finally snaps, but even despite the interruption, his eyesockets are half-lidded and he merely glances over his shoulder in irritation. 

Muffet is standing there, many of her arms crossed, while she's gesturing with the others. You can't really see her past Papyrus's form, but you're tugging at your skirt and feeling embarrassed nonetheless. What had gotten into you? You're _not_ the type to let someone feel you up in a public establishment, and yet...

You're _dripping_ down your thighs, and your body still feels like it's on fire. Even now, you just want to grip Papyrus's mandible and drag his face back to yours. 

"--sorry, didn't mean to give ya an _eye_ ful. or, ya'know, several." Papyrus is apparently smoothing out the situation with humor, but beneath the good-natured dig, you can sense his irritation. He's still wound up tight, his hands clutching your hips, fingers buried knuckle-deep beneath the hem of your skirt. The feeling of his rough bone against your flesh is enough to keep the sparked in your belly ignited, and you clench your thighs together desperately. 

As soon as Muffet leaves, Papyrus whips his head back around to you. His breathing is labored, and his eyelights seem so much brighter than usual. "let's get out of here." You nod slightly, and his forehead touches yours, and then--

You're not in Muffet's anymore. Instead, you bounce as your back hits a bare mattress, and you suddenly recognize the new location as Papyrus's room. That's unusual; he never takes a shortcut publicly. He usually tries to keep his abilities on the down-low. 

"I had no idea you could teleport _with_ people." You're unable to keep the giddiness from rising over this new information, and Papyrus smirks, pleased that he impressed you.

"yeah, but it can get taxing, so i try to keep that to myself," he replies with a shrug. His hands slide along your sides--he's propping himself up with an elbow, lying beside you, but leaned over so he's halfway on top of you. Your hands are still balled in the fluff of his jacket. Papyrus is assessing you with his usual half-lidded stare, but there's something... different about his gaze. It's searching, bafflement shadowed behind lustful desire, and you feel your fingers clench tighter, coarse fur balling in your palm. 

The moment stretches, the bony ridge of his brow beginning to knit, and your desire starts to wane toward trepidation. Is he beginning to rethink this? Is he possibly weighing the pros and cons of continuing--whether or not it would have an adverse effect on your friendship, if this is going to shift into an actual romantic relationship--or if this is going to be a one-night stand?

 _Of course it is,_ you mentally chide, _he's not the relationship type. He just happens to find you attractive, so he wants to bone. Nothing wrong with that._

Yet you feel that tight clenching in your chest again, this time so insistent that one of your hands drops from his coat so you can grind the heel of your palm against your sternum. His gaze follows the motion, and you see his lazy, lustful grin begin to diminish. 

"you feel it, too, huh?" 

At first, you don't even realize he's spoken; his voice comes out quiet and low, yet thick--almost sultry. One of his hands leaves the skin of your side to travel upward and cover the hand on your chest, and you still, your tongue darting from between your lips to moisten them so you can respond. 

His eyelights seem to flare brighter as he watches.

"..F...Feel what?" 

His fingers easily slip between yours, and you feel the pressure ease from your chest slightly. 

"your chest feels tight, right?" he queries, shifting his knees on the bed. One of his femurs plants between your legs, parting them, and you're oh-so-tempted to shimmy further down the mattress and grind against his bone. You're still burning with a need you've never experienced--one that's always been present around him, but has only ignited in a feverish intensity ever since the kiss. You manage to focus enough to nod in response, and you see relief wash over his features. His smile is back, but still not quite its wonted lazy grin. 

"that's your soul," he says, so casually that you blink, unsure if you heard him correctly. Your lips purse, and before you can voice your confusion, he dips his head down, brushing his fanged teeth against your lips. It's all you can do to keep from grabbing him by the neck and kissing him hard, but you manage to refrain. "it's calling out to mine, darlin'," he murmurs against your lips.

"It is? What..? How?" Your mind is reeling--it's difficult to process the implications when your can feel the poke of his teeth as he speaks, the pointed edges digging into your swollen lips, causing them to part. 

"it's..." He trails off, hesitating, so close that you were sharing the same breath, scented with a mixture of sweet and tangy. The fingers in his jacket finally unfurl to clasp the back of his neck. He pulls back enough to meet your gaze without making you cross-eyed, and his expression is suddenly lacking its usual ardent humor. "it means we _clicked_ , i guess ya could say. there's... pair potential."

"Pair potential?" you parrot, rolling the phrase around on your tongue. Your lips curve in a smile that's light-hearted and on the verge of teasing. "What? Does that mean we'd make a good couple?" There's a tinge of hope laced with those words.

His smile returns, but it's just a shadow of its former self. "somethin' a little more than that, darlin'. it's... rare." The next words he mumbles almost under his breath, yet his tone is awe-struck, " _soul mates._ "

Your eyes become saucers. "Wait, did you just say--"

And all at once, Papyrus starts to pull away. His head jerks back, but you keep your grip on his neck, your fingers clenching around his thick collar. "i understand if you don't w--"

Whatever he's about to say, you silence him with a kiss, smashing your lips against his fangs. You can feel him suck in a surprised inhalation through his nasal cavity, and you realize you're holding onto his hand so hard that you're trembling. You want this; you want him. You've heard a few things about monster soul mates--how it meant that your souls were compatible for a bond, and that being bonded together was a tricky thing to undo. It wasn't like you had to bond tonight, but unless you wanted to feel that ache in your soul, it was something that needed to be addressed. A mark usually solidified the deal--showed the intent to honor the bond--and a rejection right here and now could sever the connection and allow both of you to go about your business, even though it would initially be quite painful. 

After the shock wears off, you feel him murmur against your mouth, "do you..?"

"I understand," you whisper. "I know what it means. I just... I've been wanting you to make a move." You can feel your face flushing, your voice coming out meek despite your resolve. "I've been waiting for you to push the flirting further. I... I really care about you, Papyrus." 

You suck in another breath, meeting his gaze directly. He's staring at you in silence, and you can't quite read his expression. You're trembling as you push the point further by adding, "I want to see where this can go... Do you?"

With everything laid on the line, you hold your breath. That tightness in your chest-- _your SOUL_ \--has increased, bracing itself for the inevitable rejection. You were right; this was just meant to be a one-night-stand. He could never--

"darlin', you have _no idea_ ," he breathes, before his mouth descends on yours again, hungry and probing. You thoughts scramble, twisted into a ball as his magical tongue undulates against yours and he pushes you against the mattress. His hips roll against yours, and even through his tight black jeans, you can feel the protruding bulge pressing against your inner thigh--proof of his attraction.

Your head spins, but the tightness in your chest finally alleviates, molten heat spreading through your extremities in its stead. You buck up from the mattress, grinding your hips into his, and he groans into your mouth. His hands slide up your shirt, taking the hem with it, and you shove a hand up his sweater again, fumbling to grab his exposed spine. He breaks the kiss with a shuddering gasp. 

You freeze. "Was that a good sound or a bad sound?"

"good. _stars_ , that was a good sound," he mutters, his mouth dropping to your neck. You feel his tongue slide along the length of your throat, heated enough that the saliva trail feels cold as soon as the room air hits it. Experimentally, you run your palm along his spine, twisting your hand to drag the pad of your thumb across the dips in his vertebral spaces. He breaths out heavily against your neck, and you begin to smirk--until his sharp fangs graze your skin, igniting another spark of arousal and inciting you to suck in a sharp breath.

Papyrus chuckles. "good sound or bad sound?" His tone is teasing, and you buck your hips up into his, rolling them against the front of his pants.

"What do you think?"

"dunno." His phalanges slip beneath your bra, and he rolls a nipple between his index finger and thumb. "might need to hear a few more sounds from ya to figure it out." Your grip tightens on his spine as you gasp and arch your back, pushing your breast against his hand. 

"Jerk, you know e-exactly what you're-- _ahhh_ \-- d-doing." It's difficult to get the words out when he's tugging and applying just the right amount of pressure. You can feel him smirking against your neck. When he finally lifts his head, you try to give him a fake glare, but it's impossible when his smug expression turns soft. "...What?" you manage, your voice barely more than a whisper.

"you're jus' so beautiful. your face's flushed, and i've finally got you where i've always wanted ya--spread out beneath me, writhin' from my touch." His tone is a low growl, filled with a mixture of disbelief and reverence. 

You feel your blush double and your SOUL pulse within your chest. His hand shifts on your breast for the heel of his hand to press against the pressure there. Distantly, you wonder what it feels like for him; monsters are known to be so much more attuned to their SOULs, since they comprise their entire being. You can ask him later--right now, you have more pressing concerns. 

Like dealing with all these pesky layers of clothes between the two of you.

You withdraw your hand from his sweater and grip the sides of his thick jacket, pushing them away from his shoulders. "Take your clothes off. I wanna make _you_ writhe." 

"sure thing, master," he responds, chuckling. Papyrus pulls back enough to slip his jacket down his arms and discard it onto his already-cluttered floor. As you immediately grip the hem of his sweater and start dragging it up his ribs, he catches your wrist. "wait a sec. i took somethin' off, so it's your turn." 

"Hey, are you trying to tell your _master_ what to do?" you quip, raising a brow. Papyrus's grin turns shit-eating, and he releases you with a shrug.

"do as you will with me, then. i'm all yours."

You can't help but smirk. You want to burst out laughing, and from the grin on his face, you can tell he's holding back his own laughter. But, still, you play the role and nod. "Good boy." His shoulders start shaking with silent laughter at that, but you ignore him and drag his sweater over his head, leaving his ribs exposed. He's still wearing the collar around his neck, but you know he doesn't take it off, so you don't mess with it. Instead, you sit up and begin pushing on his shoulders, urging him to swap places with you so he'll be lying down. 

Papyrus quirks a brow bone, but silently obeys--aside from his absolutely amused grin. Seeing that expression on him makes you feel more relaxed; there isn't any tension in you, aside from the fact that you're not entirely sure what feels good for a skeleton. Still, you straddle him with fabricated confidence and begin by exploring his ribs. Your palm runs down his sternum, and you can feel the hum of his SOUL vibrating beneath your hand. 

"Does it always feel like this?" 

He shakes his head, the amusement on his face fading slightly. "no... that's the resonance you're feelin' there."

You hum your acknowledgement in the back of your throat, moving on with your exploration. Leaning down, you plant your lips on the side of his neck, just above the thick collar, and he tilts his head to the side to allow better access. You can barely find the space to properly kiss it, however, so you give up, moving lower to his clavicles. He seems to enjoy that, his breathing hitching when you run your tongue along the length of one, tracing it to his sternum. Your teeth scrape against the top of the bone, and his hands shoot up to grip your hips. 

You keep moving down, feeling his ribs with your fingertips and flicking your tongue between them. You draw gasps and groans from Papyrus, and his fingertips slip beneath the waistband of your skirt to dig into your fleshy skin. As you keep moving down, his fingers are forced to trail up, but he takes your blouse with him, pulling it until it's pooled beneath your armpits. You decide to throw him a bone and sit up enough to pull your shirt over your head and toss it into the abyss of his room. Immediately, he sits up and starts pulling at your bra, but you push him back to the mattress with a hand against his sternum.

"I'm not done with you yet, Rus," you chide, but the amused smile is gone from his face, replaced by a _hunger_ to touch you. 

"c'mon, darlin'."

"Almost." Your voice isn't as steady as you'd like it to be, but you reach behind your back and unclasp your bra to take it off while he watches, his eyelights positively burning in his dark sockets. He reaches up and palms your breasts with both hands, squeezing lightly, making you want to give in and just have him completely ravage you. Still, you manage to reluctantly pull back and continue your downward exploration of his body... by pressing your lips to his spine. 

Papyrus arches immediately, his fingers flying up to grip your hair. Encouraged, you run your tongue between the spaces, tracing the top of the vertebral body. 

" _ahhh_ , sh-shit. darlin', that's..." He groans as you try to wedge your teeth between one of the spaces. "that's new."

You can't help but laugh lightly, your breath hot against his spine. A hand shifts to his pants, fumbling with the button. You're not sure what to expect of him penis-wise, but you know he definitely has one. There's an obvious bulge in his pants, and from your position on his spine, you can see down them somewhat--at least enough to know there's something... glowing down there. Maybe it's similar to his tongue?

He doesn't offer to help you with his pants, too preoccupied by your oral assault on his spine, but you manage to undo the button and zipper after a little bit of struggling with the awkward angle. Papyrus at least raises his hips from the bed to let you shimmy his pants past his pelvis, and you pull back when you feel something spring from the confines of his jeans to slap against your chest. 

His dick _is_ just like his tongue, glowing a soft orange. It looks just like a regular cock, only smooth, without the veins that a human one would possess--and he also doesn't appear to have balls. It's long--much longer than any you've experienced before--with just the right amount of girth. However, this is something that catches you by surprise, and that's the golden studs on either side of the bulbous head. 

"Your dick's pierced?" you can't help but blurt in surprise. 

Papyrus chuckles, his cock twitching. You take the hint and grasp the shaft, pleasantly pleased when it tingles against your palm with magic. If kissing him was any indication, that's going to feel wonderful inside you. 

"yeah, i may've been a little drunk. ok, _a lot_ drunk." He shrugs.

You quirk a brow; from what you've heard, Papyrus had a spell where he was a heavy drinker Underground. It's why Sans abhors when he drinks, but luckily, Papyrus managed to get it under control. 

"But isn't your cock made of magic?" you press, pumping a hand along the shaft for emphasis. Papyrus groans and nods, bucking his hips, trying to make you go faster. Your palm slides around the head, feeling the piercings drag against your skin, and _damn_ , you can't wait to give them a test drive. "Then how do piercings work with magic?"

Papyrus waves his hands. "magic piercings."

You give him a deadpan look. The answer is always magic with monsters. "Of course they are." 

He smirks. "there was a monster that came across a few human magazines in the dump, decided to try out some piercings. ended up opening a shop and chargin' an arm and a leg for 'em. lots of monsters thought they looked badass, so grillby ended up rakin' in the g." 

"Makes sense," you distractedly agree, still running your hand along the shaft, flicking your thumb across the head, and trying to do what you can to hear him groan. "I like the way they look... but I'd much rather see how they _feel_."

"darlin', i can make that--"

You interrupt him. "And see how they _taste_."

His jaw audibly clicks shut, and you bob your head down, taking the head into your mouth and swirling your tongue around it. Papyrus hisses through his clenched teeth, his fingers clenching tight in your hair and pulling. "holy _fuck_ ," he raggedly breathes as your tongue flicks over the metallic studs. They don't taste like metal, but of course, his magic doesn't really have a taste. It just makes your tongue tingle, like there's an electric charge rippling across it. 

"ok, ok." He's panting when you take as much of his length as you can down your throat. His hips jerk, but he manages to hold himself back from fucking your mouth with wild abandon--just barely. "twist around." You glance up at him, a question in your gaze. "turn," he commands again, making a circle with his finger in the air. You start to obey despite your master rouse, turning so your legs around be toward him, and he grips your thighs. In one smooth jerk, he pulls your legs across him, so you're straddling his torso with your head still buried in his crotch. His dick pops out of your mouth, but you still give the base a languid stroke. 

"What're you--"

Then, it clicks when he shifts beneath you, hikes your skirt up your hips, and abruptly shoves your already-drenched panties to the side. The minute his tongue strikes across your slick folds, you gasp, squeezing his cock. 

"you're not the only one that wanted a taste, darlin'," Papyrus explains with a growl as he buries his face against you, his teeth grazing your bundle of nerves while his tongue circles your entrance. "and _damn_ , i had no idea you'd be so wet already--or taste _this good._ "

Your face flushes, but his tongue is literal magic, already making you a quivering mess. It's difficult to concentrate on the task at hand, but you decide to take this as a personal challenge and take his cock back into your mouth, sucking hard on the head and teasing the studs with your teeth. He moans, the sound vibrating against your core, and his tongue suddenly delves inside you. It swirls and explores your inner walls as he drinks in your arousal, causing you to moan around a mouthful of his dick. 

It doesn't take long for you to be a quivering mess above him, with his fingers digging into the fat of your ass, squishing it while he devours you. You're getting close, but before you can reach that utter nirvana, Papyrus pulls back. 

The whine that comes out of you surprises you with its desperation. "C'mon, Rus!"

He moves your leg and sits up to grab your arm, pulling you back up his body. "not yet. i want you cumming around my cock, darlin'. so take off that skirt." He's already toeing off his combat boots and shimmying his jeans the rest of the way down his legs, and you're so worked up at this point that you practically tear your skirt down your legs (you hear a couple of stitches pop, but you'll worry about that later). Your shoes have long since fallen off somewhere in the mess of his room, so once you're both completely naked (he left his socks on, but you choose not to give a shit), Papyrus sits up with his back against the wall and pulls you into his lap. 

His cock slides against your clit, and when the studs rub along it, you can't help but moan and grind against them. Papyrus reaches out and threads his fingers through your hair, gripping it at the base of your skull, and kisses you--hard and hungry. You can taste your own arousal on his tongue, and it only serves to feed the fire. The pressure in your chest is back, but when he pulls you closer with his other hand, smooshing your breasts against his ribcage, it feels so much better. 

You're on fire, about to burn into mere ash if you don't get him _now_ , so you shift your hips up, positioning yourself above the head of his cock. Papyrus's arm slides down to your hips, gripping the crest of yours, and you lower yourself down slowly. You can feel the head of his cock spreading you open, the protruding studs creating a cold contrast to the warmth of his shaft. 

" _fuck_ \--fuck--you feel-- _ahhh_ \--a-amazin'," Papyrus breathes in reverence, his mouth dropping to your neck, tongue swirling across your sensitive skin. You take him in slow, going down as far as possible and taking your time in adjusting to his size. The crackling magic feels _incredible_ , and your fingers grip his ribs tight. You can feel his hitched breathing against your neck, and it only makes yours speed up. You give an experimental wiggle, circling your hips against his pelvis, and you can feel the studs graze _just the right spot_. It drags a long, shuddering moan from you, and then Papyrus bucks his hips up, starting to move. 

The fingers he's dug into your hip guide you, helping you set a pace as you push up with your knees and then sink back onto him. His teeth move down your neck, alternating between skeleton kisses, laps of his tongue, and nips of his teeth. The hand in your hair moves between your shoulderblades, pushing to urge you to arch your back. He catches one of your nipples between his teeth, though he's careful to just graze it, flicking over the sensitive bud with his teeth. 

You moan louder, using your grip on his ribs for leverage as you move up and down along his length. "Ahhh--ahh, Rus.... _Rus._ " Your thoughts are incoherent, but encourage him; he abruptly jerks his hips up, spearing himself deep within you. The motions become more erratic when he takes over the pace; you can't keep up, so he shifts, gripping your ass to lift you and change positions. He stands for a moment, a little unsteady on his feet, and you automatically lock your legs around his spine. 

His strength is impressive as he manages to thrust a few times from that position before turning and falling purposely toward the mattress. Your back bounces against it, and he goes in even deeper than before, this time sliding completely to the hilt. The prominence of his sacrum grinds against your clit, and you lock your legs tighter around him, lifting your ass slightly from the bed to get the best possible angle. His hands are all over your body, gripping your breasts, your thighs, your ass. 

Papyrus kisses you again, his pace hard and quick enough that in the back of your mind, you desperately hope Sans isn't home; the springs in the mattress are loudly protesting. His tongue invades your mouth with the same tempo your lower halves have set, and you grip his spine with one hand, grinding your palm against the bone. 

"shit," he breaks the kiss with a gasp, and he looks dazed when he meets your eyes. His eyesockets are half-lidded, the lights burning within dilated and bright, casting a faint glow over his ever-present dark circles. "i-- _mmm_ , i... i... darlin'... _y-y/n_." He buries himself all the way to the hilt again, but instead of pulling out, he just does a few shallow thrusts, trying to collect his thoughts. 

"Papyrus," you murmur in response to hearing your name, fingers unfurling from his ribs to cup his cheekbone. 

"this resonance... this bond potential..." His fingers press against the center of your chest. "do you really-- _ahhh..._ " He unintentionally got a really good angle with that thrust and you found yourself grinding up against him, trying to get the studs to hit that glorious spot again. He pants, trying to catch his breath. "do ya wanna really give it a shot?"

You nod, lifting your head from the mattress to press your lips against his teeth between each word. "Yes. I've. Always. Just. Wanted. You." He's still staring at you with that dazed expression, as if he didn't hear you correctly. "If you... if you wanna mark me... you can." Your face is flushed again, that niggling seed of doubt--of disbelief that this is _really_ happening--rearing its ugly head.

" _stars_ , darlin'. you've got no-- _ahhhh_ \--n-no idea _how_ bad i want to," he claims, relief heavy in his words. He keeps moving, grinding his hips in a circle whenever he fills you completely. Your arm goes around him, and your fingers find purchase on his scapula. "are you sure?" 

"Yes, _please_." You've never been more sure of anything. You meet his hips with another thrust. "I love you, Papyrus. I've _been_ in love with you."

He stops completely for a second to stare down at you, and you suddenly wish you could choke yourself with those words. Did you just fuck up by confessing? Did you misread the situation? Does he not--?

"how the hell did i get so lucky?" he asks, more to himself than you. "i love you, too, y/n."

And then he kisses you with a feverish intensity, his tongue sweeping through your mouth, and his teeth teasing your tongue, then your bottom lip. He picks up the pace again, fucking you with wild abandon, no longer holding anything back. You're getting closer and closer, that coil winding tight in your abdomen. Your toes are even starting to curl. 

"Ah ahhh, _Rus_ , I-I'm about to..." 

His fingers dive down between your joined bodies, circling around your swollen bundle of nerves. "come for me, darlin'. i wanna feel you come hard on my cock."

The sultry sound of his vulgar, lust-filled growl is enough to make you come undone. "P-papyrus! _Rus_ , Rus, _ahhh_ , Rus!" Your body clenches, both of your arms shooting around him to hold him against your chest, pulling your bodies as close together as possible. He keeps up the pace, but after only a few more thrusts, you feel hot magic flooding inside you, his cock twitching hard. At the same time, his sharp teeth suddenly pierce your shoulder--but the pleasure-pain combination only heightens the peak of your climax, and your fingernails scrape over the protrusions of his spine. 

As you finally start to come down from your wondrous high, you realize he's swirling his tongue around the bite mark. When he lifts his head, the mark's still tingling--in fact, your entire shoulder is. You know enough about marks to know that it involves putting a bit of excess magic into the wound to make it resonate so other monsters will be able to realize the intent, but also so your SOUL will be assuaged by the promise of the mark. 

Papyrus lies on top of you, completely spent. You can feel his ribs expanding with each deep breath, which has got to just be a weird monster thing since he has no physical lungs. After a moment, the magic at his pelvis dispels, leaving you feeling much too empty. Your legs are tangled together, and his arms move beneath your back to hug you against him. 

"Do I need to mark you now? I mean--I can try, but I'd probably just break my tooth." You feel Papyrus's chuckle vibrate pleasantly through his ribs as he shakes his head.

"nah. sometimes there's two marks, but a lot of the time, it's just the dominant monster doin' the marking. just havin' my magic that close to your soul is all it takes on my end."

You nod slightly, processing the information... before you swat his arm. "Wait, dominant? Excuse you, but you were the one calling _me_ master earlier."

Papyrus raises his head with a smirk. "yet you were the one _screamin'_ my name at the end. funny how that works."

Your blush comes back, and you move to swat that smug smirk right off his face, but he catches your hand and pins it to the mattress beside your head, kissing you again. When he pulls back, that smirk has only grown.

"as much as i'd love to call you master some more... phew, ya really wore me out. it'll have to wait 'til mornin'." Papyrus moved to grab the ball of blankets bunched up at the foot of his bed and pulled them haphazardly over the both of you. They were so balled up that your feet were sticking out, so you struggled to move your legs and catch an edge of it with your toe, to stretch out the sheets. 

"Dammit, help me with the sheets." You shake his shoulder, but Papyrus doesn't move off you. Instead, his head's beside your shoulder, his eyes closed. Did he seriously already fall asleep? "Rus, c'mon! My feet are cold."

He shifted, touching the side of your foot with his socked foot. "should've worn socks."

You groan, though is dissolves into exasperated laughter. Is that seriously why he kept his socks on? So his feet wouldn't get cold while he slept?

You give up on the blankets and try to bury your toes beneath his socked feet instead. You're _soulmates_ with this lazy dork.

You can't help but shake your head and press a kiss to his temple, before closing resting your head back on the pillow and closing your eyes. 

You're _soulmates_ with your best friend.

"I'm the lucky one," you murmur, hugging Papyrus tighter before finally letting your own exhausted afterglow lull you to sleep.


	4. Sansta Baby (Gyftmas Stretch/Sans)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Stretch and Sans are dressed for Gyftmas, and one of them is about to be filled with more than just holiday puns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little Gyftmas smut one-shot for [messedupessy](https://messedupessy.tumblr.com/) because [she drew this picture](https://tyranttortoise.tumblr.com/post/168901543583/messedupessy-%CA%96-god-jul-%CA%96-or), and ever since we talked about Stretch wearing that sexy Santa dress, I knew I was going to write this. 
> 
> _Stretch x Sans_  
>  Honeyketchup  
>  ***Fontcest warning**
> 
> If you're into that kinda thing and want to read the other chapter I wrote of these two for my Kinktober, [check it out here.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12249735/chapters/27964377)

"heh. i was wonderin' what was taking you so long."

Sans chuckled from the doorway, stepping inside to kick the door closed with his heel. He locked it without preamble, as per usual with his _sleepovers_ with Stretch, as the two of them jokingly called it. 

"you wouldn't want gyftmas to _cum_ early," Sans quipped with a grin. 

"long as it _cums_ at all." Stretch leaned back on his bare mattress, lifting a long leg straight into the air in quite the Mettaton-esque pose. He was dressed for the season, in his usual _let me see how many reactions I can get_ attire. A Santa hat covered his skull, the fluffy ball resting on his bare shoulder. His oral fixation and combination sweet tooth had been satiated by a candy cane caught between his teeth. He'd also managed to wear a dress Sans was sure came in a _Mrs. Claus_ fantasy package; there was fluff around the chest and the bottom, and it was cinched tight just below his ribs with a belt. His arms were covered nearly to his armpits with bright red gloves.

Sans's eyelights traveled lower, past the hem of the dress and to the portion of exposed femur. Stretch was also wearing thigh-high green-and-red striped stockings... with his lime green crocs and a shit-eating grin to complete the look.

"don't worry," Sans began, picking his way past the literal trash littering Stretch's bedroom floor, "your stocking's not the only thing getting _stuffed_ tonight."

Stretch chuckled, finally letting his leg fall back to the mattress. "that so? i hear santa's gotta go down a chimney first, but i'd much rather him _go down_ on me."

Sans was similarly dressed for the holidays -- although his attire wasn't nearly as eye-catching as Stretch's. He had taken the lazy approach and donned a Santa hat and an open red coat with fur trim over his usual white T-shirt and shorts. 

"heh, you sound like a real _ho ho ho_. but hey, santa's all about bringing people what they want."

Sans knelt at the end of the mattress between Stretch's legs. The fluffy hem of the dress still covered the lankier skeleton's pelvis, but Sans could see the tell-tale orange glow of his magic stirring just beneath the fluff. Sans ran his fingers up the sides of Stretch's legs, snapping the elastic at his thighs, before he unceremoniously flipped the dress up. Unsurprisingly, Stretch wasn't wearing boxers; Sans had discovered that the other skeleton enjoyed the breeze against his pelvis -- or so he claimed.

Sans figured the real reason was that Stretch was a kinky bastard. That was no secret, of course; they were both freaks, or else they wouldn't be fucking in the first place. But they were the kind of freaks that understood one another -- that could read each other and keep the fun something that didn't require being weighed down with a label. 

His eyelights focused on the exposed pelvis before him. Stretch's magic had sparked to life, yes, but it wasn't fully formed. The beginnings of his shaft only looked like a short mound of orange magic, glowing across his symphysis pubis. 

Under Sans's scrutinizing stare, he could see it waver and begin to elongate. Maybe Stretch really _did_ like the breeze.

"i've got a gift for you," Sans murmured, reaching into Stretch's pelvic girdle to rub the bone behind the coalescing magic. He heard Stretch suck in a sharp breath and begin rocking against Sans's hand, the mound of magic only growing more firm. 

"somethin' i've gotta unwrap?" Stretch queries, his voice thicker than before -- much like his cock, Sans thought, reaching out with his free hand to coax the shaft into a full erection. 

"nah, but if you ever saw it... you'd even say it _glows_."

The fact that he was quoting Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer made Stretch choke on a laugh. "why didn't i think of that one?"

"because you're going up against the master and losing your touch," Sans teased, his hand within Stretch's pelvis shifting to grip his tailbone. The rough scrape of bone against bone was enough to get Stretch to suck in a hissing breath, and Sans noted with satisfaction that his partner's ecto-cock was hard as a rock. "just don't go getting _soft_ on me," he added, a double entendre.

"that'd be _hard_ to do, trust me."

Grinning, Sans cradled the base of Stretch's shaft and leaned forward, his glowing tongue snaking from between his teeth to lap from base to tip in one go. Stretch was propped up on his elbows to watch the light show, but the feeling had him tilting his head back, his fingers digging into his mattress. The feeling of their magic colliding, the friction of the electric spark, always made his entire body feel as if it were tingling. 

And despite the fact that Sans usually half-assed his way through life or found whatever shortcut he could to get around a task, this was one thing he always took his time doing right, Stretch had discovered. He supposed it was because they both made each other feel good -- that Sans knew Stretch would drive him to his own nirvana soon enough. 

The shorter skeleton knew how to use his tongue -- how to wrap it around the bulbous head, when to lash it along the underside, and when to pump his hand along the saliva-slickened shaft. He had Stretch collapsing onto the mattress, his spine arching when Sans's palm scraped the tip of Stretch's coccyx _just right_.

And then, when Stretch's breathing was beginning to hitch, his ribs heaving beneath the dress (that had slipped halfway down his ribcage to bunch at his waist) as he rapidly approached the precipice of his climax... Sans clinked his teeth against the slick tip of his erection and then pulled back, wiping his teeth with the back of his sleeve. 

"you've gotta be fucking with me," Stretch gasped, exasperated, pushing himself back up on unsteady arms while his shaft twitched in protest. Sans's grin was a mirror of his own usual shit-eating one, the one he used when he was messing with someone. 

"i told ya, gyftmas isn't going to _cum_ early," Sans repeated with a wink and moved onto the mattress beside Stretch. Even with the baggy basketball shorts Sans always wore, Stretch could tell he was pitching a tent, obviously worked up over the response he drew from the blowjob. "'sides, i'm not really thirsty for a magic milkshake." 

"you sure seem thirsty to me," Stretch remarked, reaching out to flick Sans's obvious erection. The other skeleton chuckled and shrugged.

"well, how about you come sit on santa's lap while i decide if you've been naughty or nice or what?"

Stretch immediately rethought his prior assessment of Sans's laziness. He saw through the request to his partner's true agenda, but he'd be damned if he wasn't turned on as hell. 

"you're more like a gyftmas tree than a santa," Stretch mused as he proceeded to jerk Sans's shorts down just enough to free his thick, bright blue erection. 

"why? because i'm about to have your _balls_ on me?" Sans chuckled, his grin widening.

Stretch smirked. "nah, too easy. it's 'cause you're about to have a _star on top._ "

Sans laughed out loud -- a sharp bark of laughter that that was much more genuine than the low chuckles they usually exchanged. It filled Stretch with pride as he moved to straddle the shorter skeleton and position the opening of his pelvic girdle over Sans's length, his bent knees on either side of Sans's hips. 

"ok, you're definitely on the naughty list."

"wouldn't have it any other way," Stretch agreed, lowering himself onto Sans's lap. For all the nonchalance Sans put on, Stretch caught the way the other skeleton's eyelights shot down to Stretch's pelvis, watching it engulf his throbbing ecto-cock. As usual, Stretch's magic easily formed a barrier to encase Sans's cock and squeeze it with his magic. The effect drew a shuddering breath from Sans, and his hands came to rest on Stretch's thighs, at the top of his striped stockings. 

It looked as if Sans had another quip in mind, but the moment Stretch lifted up and slammed back down, their bones scraping together, he seemed to lose the thought. He was always quiet in bed, Stretch mused, watching as Sans clenched his teeth together. Not that Stretch was incredibly vocal himself; quiet grunts and haggard breathing usually punctuated his pleasure. It wasn't as if they could be loud in this house, anyway -- not with so many others under one roof. 

Stretch adjusted, tilting his pelvis so Sans's cock would rub against the inside of his symphysis pubis through the barrier, where his magic was most concentrated. It had his breathing becoming erratic again, and when he quickened his pace to gain friction, his lengthy orange phallus bounced up and down.

It wasn't neglected for long. Drawn from his stupor by the waving light, Sans reached out and gripped the shaft, immediately pumping his palm along it. It was still slick with precum and saliva, which softened the coarse feeling of bone against it -- yet left Stretch's senses heightened. His touch was electric, only enhanced by the feeling of his girth rubbing against him from within. 

Sans's fingers curled within the elastic of Stretch's thigh-highs, his hands riding the motion of his partner lifting up and down with his knees, using the mattress as leverage. Both skeletons had beads of sweat forming below the band of their Santa hats. Sans's hat was askew, halfway on his head, while Stretch's outfit hung limp around his waist. The latter decided to take advantage of what he had left of his wardrobe, however, and pushed his hands beneath Sans's wrinkled T-shirt to grip his ribs. 

The feeling of satin on sensitive rib was exquisite. " _haaaa_ ," Sans breathed, heavy and panting, his spine arching slightly off the pillows he'd stuffed behind his back. Stretch took the encouragement and continued squeezing and working his partner's ribs, being sure to pay special attention to the cartilage around his sternum. That part was always the most sensitive whenever a skeleton was getting fucked. 

"shit, satin's... a- _ahh_ \-- where it's at," Sans managed, as if Stretch couldn't tell what he was doing to him already. Sans reached out and gripped Stretch's spine with his free hand, the other still pumping his erection at the same speed as Stretch's movement. "remind me to buy satin sheets."

"y-you'd end up having... _mmm_.... wet dreams in them." It was hard to converse when Sans was flicking his thumb over the spaces between Stretch's vertebrae, touching him, _and_ filling him up at the same time. Sans tilted Stretch's phallus down so he could see his own blue cock buried deep within the other skeleton. 

"either way, i'm sure i'm gonna be having wet dreams about this," Sans claimed, his voice raw and husky as he began to thrust up to meet Stretch's pelvis-- harder, _deeper_. 

"long as it's not on my sheets."

"you don't even _have_ sheets on your mattress."

"exactly. no sheets, no mess." 

Sans couldn't help but chuckle again at Stretch's logic, and the sound only made Sans's girth vibrate within the other. Stretch blew out a deep breath, his fingers gripping one of Sans's floater ribs tight, and Sans squeezed Stretch's dick tighter in response. Both skeletons were on the cusp of their climaxes.

It would be so easy to stop moving, Stretch considered. He could draw it out, see if he could make it a _not so silent night._ If he teased Sans at this point, he might actually be able to get him into a quivering mess beneath him -- or the skeleton might get too frustrated and just grab his hips and thrust up until he comes. 

Or, worse, Sans might decide to turn the tables later and withhold pushing Stretch over the edge. Orgasm denial was not something either of them were into, and Stretch was already wound up enough thanks to the Gyftmas blowjob. 

Stretch had started to slow down while he weighed the pros and cons, but Sans took the decision away by thrusting upward and off the mattress with a grunt. " _cum_ on, pal. let's get to the point already," he muttered, his hand expertly working Stretch's cock. There were definite pros to fucking a skeleton from another universe, Stretch thought; they had all the same erogenous zones and knew how to push your buttons -- because they were his buttons, too. 

"ok, ok," Stretch grunted in reply, slipping a gloved hand beneath Sans's ribcage to rub the underside of his sternum. That, coupled with a smooth gyration, was enough to make Sans _cum_ undone. The shorter skeleton shuddered, gasping as his cock expelled excess magic deep within Stretch, coating his orange barrier with a vibrant blue that darkened the sheen of his magic. The electric pulse was enough to make Stretch cum as well, squirts of orange magic coating Sans's exposed ribs. 

Both skeletons took their time coming down from their high. Stretch's hands moved to simply rest on Sans's ribcage, and Sans's hands settled lightly on the other's hips. After a moment, their magic dissipated, leaving blue magic to seep down onto Sans's pelvis. 

Silently, Sans reached down into the pile of clothes and trash littering Stretch's carpet and picked up a black tanktop that was as common to Stretch as Sans's white T-shirt. He held it up to Stretch and quirked a brow ridge, and Stretch nodded his permission. Immediately, Sans began mopping up their mess before it would have a chance to seep into the mattress. There were already several questionable stains as it was; it was no wonder that someone that didn't feel like doing laundry would strip the bed before a fuck, but Sans really didn't want Papyrus or Blue seeing it. Or, hell-- Red. He certainly already suspected something was weird about their 'sleepovers.' Sans really didn't want him holding concrete evidence over them and complicating things.

Stretch clinked his teeth against Sans's, drawing him back to the present, and then flopped on his back beside the shorter skeleton. He didn't bother to fix his attire -- his stockings were down past his knees -- and instead pulled out a candycane to chew on. It was almost as good as a sucker, if not stickier. 

Sans, on the other hand, pulled his clothing back in place and wadded the makeshift cum rag into a ball to add back to the trash pile. "you know what you need?" he queried, folding his arms beneath his skull.

"hmm?"

"a maid."

Stretch chuckled, the candycane bobbing between his teeth. "ya'know, i just so happen to have a maid costume, so... if you wanna wear it sometime..."

Sans waves a dismissive hand. "pfft, i rarely clean my own room."

"who said anything about cleaning?" Stretch smirked.

"you're not just naughty, you're _dirty_ , too," Sans teases, shaking his head. "but yeah, sure. remind me next time."

"sounds like the best gyftmas present i could ask for."

"nah, the _best_ gyftmas present would be edge's reaction if i wore it and called him master."

Stretch grins and jostles Sans with his elbow. " _please_ tell me you'll do it." 

Sans smirks. "ok, but only if you _stay_ on the naughty list." 

"consider it done, _sans_ ta."


	5. Patience is a Virtue (Swapfell Papyrus)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *and they say good things _cum_ to those who wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a birthday gift for my wonderful birthday twin, [nighttimepixels](https://nighttimepixels.tumblr.com/)! This gift actually is set in one of her AU's, Passiontale, with a guest appearance from her [Lilytale](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14366649/chapters/33165606) Underfell Sans, Crimson. 
> 
> **AU:** Passiontale  
>  **Pairing:** Reader (with vagina) / Swapfell Papyrus  
>  **keywords:** desk sex, pining, teasing, bedroom puns
> 
> HAPPY BIRTHDAY, NIGHT! <3

_It’s bright._

You weren’t sure that you were ever going to get used to falling asleep in a completely dark room, only to find yourself standing in a vast area, so bright that you couldn’t make out the details. Squinting, you raised an arm and wiped at your eyes, trying to get them to focus. Even without your glasses, you knew from experience that you would have perfect vision in just a few moments.

You had gotten used to entering the dreamscape.

The ethereal brightness finally abates, and you practically stumble as your surroundings shift and come into focus. The room you find yourself in is dimly lit by only the sparse flames of a dying fireplace and a shaded desk lamp, however, you instantly note that you’re in a grand study, surrounded by broad bookcases. 

Immediately, you scan the area -- and feel your heart flutter when you glimpse a certain someone.

Two words escape you, spoken in relief: 

“You’re back.”

Seated in front of you, dress shoes propped on the edge of a grand, mahogany desk, is Russ. His attire differs vastly from his usual fur-lined, hooded jacket and jeans; instead, he’s adorned a sharp, pin-striped suit, complete with a loose, orange tie. He tips his matching fedora away from his eyesockets and smirks, his golden fang glinting in the firelight. 

“hey darlin’. isn’t that my line?”

You furrow your brow and step forward -- though the motion brings forth the sudden realization that you’re wearing an elegant gown in your favorite color. It hugs you just right and the fabric shimmers as you move. You’re so distracted by the dress that you almost forget the point you were about to make. Almost.

“What do you mean?” you retort, tearing your gaze from the gown to stalk toward the desk. “You said that you’d be here if I needed you, and you haven’t been here.”

Russ nods. “you haven’t needed me. simple.”

You _do_ recall him explaining the logistics of dreamscapes really being soulscapes, and your soul resonating with different muses depending on what it needed the most, but you thought that meant that your soul resonated with _his_. He was the first muse you met, and had it not been for the love bites you found on yourself when you woke up, you would have thought of him as a mere (decidedly delicious) dream. It made you eager to sleep, to glean the chance to meet him again. But you quickly discovered that not every night would be one where your soul connected to the dreamscape, and not every encounter would involve him. 

“But... I wanted to see you.” Your face flushes at the admission; it comes out almost as a whine.

“i know.” He straightened, setting his long legs on the floor and leaning forward, his hand moving to cradle a decanter of amber liquid. Were there always two empty glasses on the desk? “but you know what they say. patience is a virtue.”

You’d heard that before; Russ is the muse of patience, of course. 

“Does that mean I was being too impatient and that’s why other muses came?”

He shakes his head, though his smirk looks amused. “nah, more like you’re bein’ impatient _now_ , and that’s why i’m here.” He lifts the decanter and sloshes the liquid to catch your attention. “scotch?”

You shake your head. “No, I prefer--”

“don’t worry, i got’cha, darlin’.” 

Your retort cuts off as he pours from the decanter, and the liquid changes color as it fills the glass. Brows raising, you cautiously take the glass from the desk, while he smirks and makes a _go on_ motion with his hand. You take a tentative sip and discover that it’s not scotch, but _absinthe._ Blinking in surprise, you pull it back to examine the drink. It tastes perfect even without him using a special spoon and sugar cube.

You suppose it’s the perks of the dreamscape. Things seem to change here depending on how your soul is resonating, and the muse can help shape things accordingly. 

While you’re distracted, Russ disappears from his chair -- only to reappear directly behind you. Skeletal fingers skim your throat, before they hook around the thin sleeve of your gown and pull the fabric away from your shoulder. Your head tilts of its own accord, providing better access when you feel his warm breath fan across your skin. Sharp teeth nibble at your shoulder, and your breath catches in your throat. You reach back to grasp onto him, one hand grasping the back of his neck (and nearly knocking his hat off in the process), and the other balling in part of his suit jacket. 

You can feel him smirk.

“always so eager, aren’t you, darlin’? it’s no wonder you resonated with me first.”

You flush, and whatever retort you had turns into a gasp when his tongue flicks out to swirl around the junction of your shoulder and neck. You find yourself arching back against him, clenching your thighs together. His tongue tingles, and it seems to set all your nerves alight with a pleasant sensation that shoots straight down between your legs.

It’s not fair, really, how easy it is for him to turn you on -- how much your soul responded to his touch.

Still, you manage to gather your willpower enough to suddenly twist in his grasp, turning to face him. He pulls back to regard you with a quirked brow, and you flick the fedora from atop his head, wanting to see his gaze unobscured by shadow. His eyelights are smaller than usual, burnt orange embers focused entirely on you. His hands rest on the curve of your hips, while you run your hand up his tie and slip a finger in the loose knot. 

“Stop smirking and kiss me,” you murmur, right before you yank on his tie and draw his face down to yours. He willingly bends, a sound of assent that rumbling through his chest, and squeezes your hips. His fangs crash against your lips, which automatically part to welcome his magical tongue. Your grip tightens on his tie, keeping him in place as you kiss him -- hard, not caring if his fangs poke into your lips -- while your free arm encircles his neck again. Rising to your tip-toes to compensate for the considerable height difference, you mold your body to his. 

His tongue is (literally) magic in your mouth, undulating as you suck and rake your teeth along it. The tingling makes you feel light-headed and breathless, and leaves you craving _more._ You fumble with the knot on his tie for a moment, before finally managing to untie it and gain access to the buttons of his dress shirt. He makes no move to help you, but his hands slide around to your ass and squeeze. In the next moment, he lifts you up, causing you to squeak in surprise in his mouth, and places you on the edge of the desk. 

Your legs hook around his waist, and you lose one of your heels. Absentmindedly, you shake off the other and dig your heels into his coccyx to grind his hips against yours. The feel of a rather obvious bulge brings a smile to your lips, and you finally break the kiss so you can actually complete your next goal -- getting Russ undressed.

Your fingers are trying to work one step ahead of your brain, however, which draws an amused chuckle from the skeleton. “easy there,” he mutters, ducking his head to press skeleton kisses along your neck. “there’s no rush.”

The rush is that you want to explore his ribs and sternum in a way that never fails to draw a low groan from him, but instead of telling him that, you suck in a deep breath and try to slow down. You’re beginning to realize more and more why you resonate so well with Russ. Not only does he help you find your own patience, but he also shows you so much more patience than you’re used to when dealing with people in your waking hours. Not having any pressure is wondrous, which also explains why your soul always feels so safe around him. 

You manage to unbutton his shirt completely about the time that he pushes the sleeves of your gown far enough down your shoulders to bare your breasts. He certainly wastes no time nipping his way down your chest, and when his tongue flicks over a pert nipple, you latch onto his chest, your fingers curling between two ribs.

You squeeze as he swirls his tongue, unbashedly moaning, and you can feel him smirk against your skin. Moving your hand, you press your thumb into the distal tip of his sternum and rake your nail across the surface. You can feel the start of a satisfied growl rumbling through his ribs, and you try to concentrate on exploring his chest, determined to draw a louder reaction from him. Your palms glide across his ribs, down to his floaters, which always seem especially sensitive. He rewards you with a light nip to your breast that has you squeezing your legs around his hips and grinding against him. 

It isn't until you reach past his ribs and grasp his lower spine that he arches into your touch and lifts his head away from your chest. 

" _damn_ , darlin'. it takes s..." He loses his train of thought as you rub your palm up his vertebrae and then drag your fingernails across the vertebral spaces. "... some _spine_ to get right down to business."

"Is this business?" you coyly inquire, grinning from his pun. Leaning in, you nudge his spiked collar out of the way with your nose so you can kiss his clavicle. "Here I thought it was _pleasure._ "

His chuckle turns into a strained groan, and he shoves the hem of your gown up your thighs. "That part's just getting started."

If there's one thing you've discovered about Russ, it's that he's a tease. His hand moves to your inner thigh, but instead of plunging his fingers into your already-soaked core (huh, you're not wearing panties in this dreamscape-- what exactly does _that_ say about the state of your soul?), he simply strokes his fingers up and down your thigh, the tips occasionally ghosting your folds and inciting your hips to jerk from the desk. 

As much as he loves teasing you -- he's smirking again, those bright eyelights watching every subtle shift in your expression -- you don't have as much patience. You undo his belt and pants, fumbling each time his fingers skim the juncture of your legs, and plunge your hand within to release his sizable ecto-cock from its confines. Much like you, he's not wearing underwear, though you suspect it's due to laziness. Squeezing the shaft causes him to suck in a sharp breath through clenched teeth, and it's your turn to smirk. 

He can't resist the urge to touch you while you're stroking him, and you know it. He finally stops teasing you with the occasional feather-light touch; his fingers slide through your slick folds and dip into your entrance. He's cautious, making sure that you're wet enough before he plunges a phalange all the way within. Your hips buck into his hand, taking it in further, and he gives a few experimental pumps before he adds another finger. 

You're not sure if it's due to the soul resonance or if he just has the _magic touch_ , but as soon as his fingers curl, so do your toes. Your head falls to his shoulder, and you press your mouth into his suit jacket to muffle your moans. Meanwhile, you don't stop pumping your hand along his magical shaft. The magic is more concentrated within it than his tongue -- it makes your palm tingle -- and it's also rather warm and the same orange hue as his eyelights. It holds considerable length and impressive girth, yet not excessive. Strangely enough, it's also pierced, golden studs going down either side. Of course, you're not complaining; you know from experience that they feel _amazing_.

Your thumb flicks over a stud, and he grinds his own thumb in a slow circle around your clit. You bite his clavicle in response, and he groans much louder than before. 

"o....ok," he mutters, just as you're getting _so close_ to a mind-shattering orgasm. He pulls his hand from you, and you actually whine in the back of your throat, a protest on your lips. Just a few more seconds, and you would've come! 

He grins and takes your hand away from his cock, moving instead to line up the head of his dick with your entrance. "ya'know what they say, darlin'." That grin turns shit-eating. "good things _cum_ to those that wait."

You've heard that before, and you stifle a groan. Okay, so you're being too impatient again, but you can't help it; you _want_ him. 

"Come _on_."

He hums, pressing the head of his cock just barely within your heat. You can feel yourself stretching pleasantly around him, but it just leaves you wanting more. You try to rock your hips or draw him closer with your legs, but he holds your hips firmly in place with his hands. "that's the idea. i want you to _cum on_ me."

You try to fight your smile at that one and instead try the seductive approach. Your head tilts back, and you pepper open-mouthed kisses along his jaw. "Let me cum on you, then."

"have some patience," he teases, rocking ever-so-slightly. You feel one of his studs slip inside you, teasing you as it rubs you from the inside. 

"I'm so patient that I... I don't even want it anymore," you lie, trying to huff to tease him. It backfires into a soft moan as he edges a little deeper, and your fingers ball into his opened dress shirt. 

He half-scoffs, half-laughs. "darlin', you're moister than an oyster. keep tellin' yourself that."

"What?" you nearly choke, and while you're distracted, he fills you to the hilt with one smooth thrust. Gasping, you cling to him, taking him in as far as possible. It sounded like he wanted to chuckle, but it turned into an actual soft moan instead. He waited a moment before he started moving, rocking his hips into yours in slow, shallow thrusts at first. Your moans encourage him, however-- as does the way you're grasping at his clothing, and he picks up the pace. He knows just how to angle his hips to hit just the right spot, and you pull back enough to clutch his neck and kiss him again. 

His tongue mimics the lower halves of your body, dipping in and out, rubbing against your tongue, making you hyper-aware of the sensation. Your mouth tingles with magic, and the magic in his cock brings all your nerves alight, sending new ripples of pleasure with each stroke. He palms your breast, squeezing the supple flesh and pinching your nipple, while you grab onto his spine. 

That's enough to break his careful, controlled thrusts; he moans, louder than before and tinged with a growl, and his movements become more erratic and off-tempo. He leans over you, pushing you back onto the desk, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you hear the decanter tumble off and hit the carpet with a dull thud. His kiss becomes rougher, fangs biting pleasantly into your lips as he devours your mouth, undulating his tongue against yours. You pull on his collar, keeping his mouth firm against yours, and his hand delves between your legs to rub circles around your clit. 

That's enough to push you over the precipice. You come undone, gasping and moaning into his mouth, your back arching up as you desperately grope for something to cling to--the spinous process of his neck, his collar, his jacket, his spine. He grabs your hands in his, lacing your fingers together, and pins them against the desk by your head while you ride our your orgasm. 

Finally, he breaks the kiss with a growl and moves his face to your shoulder, where he bites down as he comes, right over your last healed love bite. After a few more lazy thrusts, he collapses on top of you, the magic of his tongue tingling across the bite as his erection dissipates from within you.

After a moment of basking in the afterglow, still holding hands, you manage, "Well, you did say good things come to those who wait, huh? You weren't kidding."

"patience's a virtue an' all that jazz," he comments with a chuckle. "so are ya ready for your present?"

Your brow quirks, and you raise your head to look down at him. "Present? _That_ wasn't my present?"

"nah, _that_ was mine." Smirking, he props himself up on his elbows-- and you suddenly notice him look at something just over your head. You can suddenly see a glow in your peripherals, so you crane your head back --

\-- and discover a skeleton sitting in the desk chair with a birthday cake placed in _her_ lap. 

Crimson smirks, gold tooth flashing, and gestures to the cake with lit candles. "i'd say to make a wish, sweetsoul, but ya must've already done it if 'm here."

The female version of another muse you've met, Red, is the only muse you've come close to having the same resonance that you have with Russ. You push yourself up and twist around, flushing over her seeing you in such a state--but your mind also whirling with the implications of her being here now. 

"Crimson! What-- what are you doing here?"

She winks, setting the cake beside you on the desk and then tucking a wayward bit of your hair behind your ear. She's dressed similarly to how Russ was, though the suit has a distinctly more feminine cut, and her tie is completely undone. "ya really think i'd miss yer birthday, sweetness? i'm here t' give ya your gift." She leans in until her mouth is directly by your ear. " _me._ "

From behind you, Russ wraps his arm around your waist and draws your back against his chest.

"ready for round two, darlin'? two for the price of one."

Boy howdy, were you ever!


End file.
